


If I Can't Find You There, I Don't Care

by blackmountainbones



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Ass to Mouth, Cheating, Comeplay, Creampies, Future Fic, Infidelity, Longing, M/M, Overstimulation, Relationship Negotiation, Switching, Underage Drinking, but it takes a lot of pain to get there, endgame: well-negotiated poly where everything is beautiful and nothing hurts, they're drunk but sober enough to know better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-10-14 00:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10525413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmountainbones/pseuds/blackmountainbones
Summary: Four years after Barcelona, Yuri Plisetsky still hasn’t gotten over his awkward teenage crush on Yuuri Katsuki, his married rival-cum-coach. Though he has always longed for something more, Yuri has too much to lose if he acts on his feelings.But all that changes one night in Salt Lake City, when Yuuri accompanies his two young protégés to Skate America without his husband. Salsa dancing and a stolen bottle of scotch lead to the kind of bad decision that changes everything. How will Viktor, Yuuri, and Yuri begin to put themselves back together after it all falls apart?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yes kubo senpai, you have given us canon sportsgays who have a very loving and supportive relationship. and you're wonderful for it. i took these characters and i broke them without your permission. i apologize, but i will not stop. 
> 
> (please don't kick me out of the fandom)
> 
> thanks to [abrandnewheart](http://archiveofourown.org/users/abrandnewheart/pseuds/abrandnewheart) for proofreading this. [muspell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell) & [phayte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/pseuds/Phayte) for letting me spam you with ideas. hell is certainly warmer when you've got friends.

Yuri leans against the wall, trying his best to make himself as invisible as possible for a silver medalist at a skate gala.

This is his least favorite part of skating for a living, these stupid banquets. He hates the stuffy, prim clothing, how his coaches constantly force him to stand up straight and stop scowling and be nice to the sponsors. Worst of all, this is Skate America--and because of America’s stupid puritanical laws, the drinking age here is 21, so Yuri is being forced to endure this all _sober_.

He scowls as Minami twirls across the dancefloor, embracing a female pair skater who is somehow even shorter than he is. God damn it, how much longer is he going to be forced to endure this bullshit? Yuri clenches his hands and slumps against the wall, his surliest expression on his face.

He is so focused on staring at the dance floor and hating the world that he jumps when he feels it--a hesitant hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing.

“Calm down, Yurio,” a voice says, and it’s Yuuri Katsuki, because of course it is. He’s the one who’d accompanied Yuri and Minami here, while Viktor remains in St Petersburg with their two newest proteges, two promising junior skaters who have a big domestic competition later this week. Since they retired from skating two years ago, their coaching practice has grown, forcing the two to spend more time apart as they accompany their skaters to their various competitions.

“What the hell do you want, piggy? I already told you, I’m not talking to any more damned sponsors.” Yuri is glaring, but there’s a hint of a grin in the corners of his green eyes.

Yuuri shrugged, making his suit jacket pull attractively across the breadth of his shoulders. It’s a nice suit, deep blue and not quite slim cut, the gold threads in his tie bringing out the red flecks in his brown eyes. Yuri has an uncharacteristic flash of appreciation for Viktor--he is the one who insisted Yuuri burn his old suit, and the sole reason Yuuri looks _so fucking good_ tonight. “I don’t want to talk to any more damned sponsors, either,” Yuuri admits. His hair has gotten a little too long again, and falls into his eyes. He brushes it back with a casual hand, and for a moment, the Eros peeks through his bashful facade.

Yuri nods in agreement, forcing himself to relax. Times like these, Yuri’s thankful that Katsuki is more his coach instead of Viktor, because Viktor loves these stupid things, loves showing off for the cameras and the sponsors and the other coaches. He’d force Yuri to interact with other humans, and be _nice_ about it too, but Katsudon at least gives him his space. Without Viktor here to parade him around and show off his husband to everyone in sight, Yuuri prefers to hang around in the background rather than be the center of attention. He and Yuuri understand this about each other, and that’s why they keep each other company at these events.

Yuuri grins, then unbuttons his blazer to flash the pilfered bottle of scotch he’s tucked into his waistband. “What do you say we skip out early, and go somewhere where we can drink in peace?”

Despite his attempt to continue scowling and looking miserable. Yuri cannot help the smile that quirks at the corners of his lips. “Your room or mine?”

With a glance out at the dancefloor, Yuuri nods at Minami and the tiny pair skater, then hums mischievously. “Mine, for sure.” His eyes crinkle a bit with his cynical chuckle. “You may have some unexpected company in yours tonight...”

“Gross.” The last thing Yuri needs is to walk in on Minami and his midget in mid-coitus. Next time, he’s going to have to insist on getting his own room.

Yuuri just chuckled, his hand a hot weight where it pats Yuri’s back in encouragement. The touch was altogether too close to something else, something more familiar, and the realization makes Yuri’s cheeks burn. “My room it is,” Yuuri purrs against his head, punctuating the words with a pinch to Yuri’s side. “C’mon, this is good stuff. Don’t make me wait any longer.”

Yuri has to stop himself from shivering, but lets Yuuri guide him to the exit. Yuuri’s hand is heavy and hot where it burns through Yuri’s blazer to the base of his spine, but he lets it linger there all the way until they reach the room.

 

 

Upstairs, Yuuri guides him in a complicated salsa step. They’re drunk, laughing, loose in a way they can only be with each other as they improvise a dance in the messy hotel room, occasionally tripping over Yuuri’s discarded clothes and towels. But Yuri doesn’t care if he stumbles; Yuuri catches him gracefully, making it all look like a part of the dance.

“Wait, wait!” Yuri laughs, reaching for the bottle of scotch balanced precariously on the edge of the desk. Yuuri, however, gets his mouth on the bottle first, stealing a swig before Yuri can push him away.

He’s gorgeous like this, flushed with sweat in his hair, his shirt half-unbuttoned. Yuri can see that he wears no undershirt--his nipples are two dusky peaks against the fine fabric, and the realization makes Yuri swallow a bit too much scotch and cough.

“Easy there, tiger,” Yuuri teases, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses as he dances on his feet. He rubs Yuri’s back softly, too softly to be anything other than a caress.

Yuri screws the top onto the bottle of scotch with shaking hands. It’s nothing, just the sensuality of the dance. _This_ is why Yuuri is the best dancer Yuri knows, why he’s his favorite partner on the floor--he dances every step like he means it, leads Yuri like a lover. Yuri wants to believe, but he knows better.

Well. No one else is here to see. He can let himself pretend for just a little longer.

He tosses the closed bottle onto the bed, and turns toward Yuuri, arms outstretched in a _copa,_ a gesture of beckoning. Yuuri falls into step behind him, executing a quick turn so they are once again facing each other, then Yuuri grabs his hand, pushing it through his own hair to perform a comb as he executes something complicated with his feet. Yuri attempts to follow his footwork and stumbles once more. Before he can catch himself, he’s tripping over his feet, falling into Yuuri who is falling back onto the bed.

They’re sprawled on the queen-sized bed, the half-empty bottle somewhere in the sheets, suspended in an awkward silence.

After a moment that drags on too long, Yuuri laughs. “Wow.... That was just like Sochi, wasn’t it?” He winks. “Though your dancing has improved a bit since then.”

“You were so _embarrassed_ when you saw the pictures,” Yuri says between breaths. He’s breathing hard as he relaxes into the sheets and tries not to notice Yuuri lying next to him, lying so close.

“Embarrassed by _you_ ,” Yuuri fires back, and Yuri tosses his hair and laughs, deep and loud. He loves Yuuri’s bitchy side almost more than his kindness.

When Yuri’s done laughing, he opens his eyes. Yuuri’s gaze sparks, despite the fact that he must be drunk as fuck. But he is looking at Yuri, eyes perfectly focused. “You’re pretty when you smile, you know?”

Yuri flushes under his gaze. It reminds of being fifteen again and just as hopeless against Yuuri’s Eros. He scowled. “Fuck you, I’m not _pretty_.”

“You _are_ ,” Yuuri insists, tucking an errant strand of hair behind Yuri’s ear. He’s so close that Yuri can taste his breath, smoky from the Scotch they’re drinking.

His fingers linger on the pulse point in Yuri’s neck, and Yuri knows better, knows he should make his apologies and head back to his own hotel room three doors down on the right, put himself to bed and forget this moment ever happened (but not before jerking off into the sheets while choking on his shame). It is, after all, exactly what he’s been doing for the last four years, ever since Yuuri moved to St Petersburg to train with Viktor.

Yet he does none of that. He looks up into Yuuri’s eyes, where they peek over the frame of his glasses, warm and brown and full of intent. A breath catches in Yuri’s throat as Yuuri surges forward. His lips taste like sin and single malt, and Yuri sips and sips and sips until his head spins and his skin burns. He’s drunk on scotch and also on something distinctly _Yuuri_ that tastes like the salt in the air at the seaside, like pine needles and peat moss.

Somehow, he finds himself on his back, the warm solid weight of Yuuri pressing him down into the mattress. Yuuri pulls back, and Yuri is surprised to see his glasses are fogged from their combined breath. He reaches over to remove the blue frames from Yuuri’s face, placing them delicately on the nightstand before tugging at a lock of Yuuri’s unruly black hair and dragging him down to where Yuri can taste.

Yuri whimpers, overwhelmed. He’s drunk, but not drunk enough to forget Viktor, not drunk enough to forget the dozens of reasons that they should not be doing this, should not be kissing and rubbing against each other through their clothing. Yet _knowing_ is not reason enough to make him stop, and he sucks at Yuuri’s tongue greedily, drawing him closer.

Yuuri’s hands pull his shirt from where it’s tucked into his trousers. His fingertips are cool against Yuri’s burning skin, and Yuri moans as Yuuri’s thick fingers make quick work of the buttons on his shirt.

Then Yuuri’s hands are on Yuri’s bare torso, tracing the ladder of his ribs here they peek through his skin. His touch is soft, barely more than a whisper--Yuri wants more. Wants Yuuri to leave marks, to slap and pinch and bruise, to touch him so hard that the ghost of his touch will linger always. Yuri has no illusions that this will ever be anything more than one drunken mistake, but he wants it to last as long as possible, to have proof of the night he’s stolen.

They call him the Russian Punk, but the truth is, Yuri has always done what he’s been told to do. From meal plans to training regimens to gold medals, he does what he’s expected to. If there’s one thing that he can take for himself, the rest of the world and their expectations be damned, it will be this: a forbidden night with his married coach. God knows, Yuri Plisetsky has been in love with Yuuri Katsuki since he was twelve years old, since the first time he’d seen him dance on the ice, and this is simultaneously all he’s ever wanted and everything he thought he’d never have. He’ll be damned if he gives this up now. Especially if this is the only chance he gets.

“Please,” he says, and somehow Katsuki understands: he digs his fingers into the soft flesh between Yuri’s ribs, hard enough to hurt. Yuri’s nerve endings sing; he gasps. Yuuri pauses, a question in his eyes. “Don’t stop, goddamn you, don’t stop _now_ ,” Yuri whines, and Yuuri makes a sound like a (dying man). His tongue is in Yuri’s mouth, tracing the back of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, twisting around Yuri’s own as he teases moans and gasps from the younger man.

The plea has unleashed something in him. Yuuri’s hands grasp at his flesh, and there is something desperate in the way he pulls Yuri close that makes Yuri wonder how long he has wanted this. His wedding ring is a cool contrast to the heat of his hands, and the shock of the metal against Yuri’s skin makes him freeze. _Viktor_ . His spine goes stiff, yet when Yuuri swipes his tongue from Yuri’s lips to his neck, Yuri _wants_ so badly nothing could make him stop.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Yuuri whispers as his tongue traces the shell of Yuri’s ear. It makes him shiver, and Yuri doesn’t know why Yuuri’s soft words ignite something hot inside him, make his desire even deeper. So Yuri’s hands clasp Yuuri’s bare back to bring their hips together. Yuuri’s cock is hot and hard in his suit trousers, and Yuri can’t help but caress the bulging fabric. A hiss escapes from between Yuuri’s teeth as his cock throbs in Yuri’s hand, and the hot ball of want in Yuri’s belly flares so hot it threatens to burn him up from the inside.

One of Yuuri’s hands slides down the back of Yuri’s trousers, a finger tracing the crack of his ass. “Can I?” he asks.

Yuri nods. Before he knows what’s happening, Yuuri has tossed him onto his back while his hands greedily stripping Yuri of his remaining clothes until he’s naked and exposed on the bed, his own cock red and heavy between his legs.

Yuuri waits for a moment, nearly clothed, his open shirt exposing nothing more than a thin sliver of his torso as he regards Yuri’s prone form and the naked desire scrawled all over Yuri’s body and face. Then he leans back and tosses his shirt to the floor before stepping sensually out his pants, body swaying to a song only the two of them can hear.

He crawls onto the bed, his hands greedy grasping things as they skim over Yuri’s body, starting at his chest. But quickly they come to rest on Yuri’s narrow but shapely ass, in the indent between his hipbone and the carved muscle of his glutes.

A tentative finger traces down Yuri’s crack, and Yuri gasps. “Is this--is this okay, kitten?” he asks, his thumb putting pressure on Yuri’s hole. Yuri swallows and nods. In this moment, Yuuri resembles the man he was five years ago in Hasetsu, so vulnerable and so in love with his idol. Yuri’s breath catches in his throat... could Yuuri mean this, even a little bit, beyond the drunken mistake they’ll blame it on in the morning?

“If you knew,” he chokes out, words wan and worn, “the way I’ve always wanted you--” and he doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Yuuri is kissing the words right off the tip of his tongue. His hands grab Yuri by his cheeks, gently pushing him onto his belly, arranging him ass-up on the sheets before he breaks the kiss with a greedy smack.

Yuuri drags his skin against Yuri’s back until he’s crouching behind him. Yuri can’t see him from this angle, but he can feel the heat of Yuuri’s desire as he sits on his heels, watching him. “You’ll stay like this for me,” he murmurs, and though it’s a command the words feel like a caress.

Yuri nods, then the springs in the mattress shift as Yuuri climbs off the bed. He hears the sound of a bag unzipping, then Yuuri rifling through the contents. A moment later, he returns to Yuri’s side with a soft sigh.

“Good, you were so good for me.” Yuuri’s voice is low and hoarse in way that makes Yuri squirm against the mattress. His foreskin slips against the head of his cock, and he groans. “None of that, kitten,” Yuuri says, voice fond; when he slaps Yuri’s ass, it’s more playful than punishing.

Yuri wants him so much his asshole twitches, already eager to open up for him. Finally, a slick fingertip rubs against the wrinkled muscle, and Yuri’s body, drawn tight with anticipation, begins to relax.

The fingertip on his hole presses in. Yuri can’t help himself, he drives his ass back onto the thick finger, all the way to the knuckle. He hears Yuuri’s amused chuckle, and it should sound cruel, but it makes Yuri keen.

Yuuri’s knuckles are steady pressure on his rim as he gently thrusts his finger in and out, tugging at his inner walls in a way that makes Yuri’s nerve endings sing before adding another. When he spreads his fingers inside him, Yuri’s body yields easily. It takes another finger and a few minutes to loosen Yuri up. His body has never welcomed any lover as readily as it had Yuuri, yielding so easily. He wonder if it’s because he’s had lovers but never been in love with anyone else, not like this, not even close.

Yuuri removes his fingers, and Yuri’s hole sucks at him, reluctant to let go. But when he feels Yuuri’s heavy weight against his ass Yuri whines and flips from his belly onto his back. “Not--not like this--”

“Won’t it be easier--”

“Let me see you.” Yuri wants to watch, wants to gorge every one of his senses on Yuuri’s taste and touch, his scent like driftwood and pine needles, all the filthy words he whispers in a voice torn apart by his need. He plants his feet on the mattress and spreads his thighs wide. He’s on display, his weeping cock, his heavy balls, his stretched hole. Yuuri gasps, and is on him in an instant, lining up his thick cock with Yuri’s rim, which flutters against his flesh.

And in an instant, Yuuri is inside him. Yuri cries out and his thighs tighten around Yuuri’s hips, keeping him still. “You OK?” Yuuri whispers as his thumbs stroke the slim lines of Yuri’s hipbones. His hair is full of cowlicks, his chest is heaving with his breath, but it’s the raw want in his gaze that has Yuri yearning for Yuuri to look at him like that always.

One of his hands clutches Yuri’s side. “Look at me,” Yuri asks; Yuuri’s startled gasp is so sharp his hips rock against Yuri, who will tighten his grip on Yuuri’s waist until he answers. “Promise me you won’t look away.”

Yuuri nods and shifts his hips, eyes half-lidded but looking right at him. His cock rocks inside Yuri’s ass; the familiar burn of his flesh stretching around the dick buried inside him makes his own throb. When Yuri slowly spreads his legs, Yuuri pulls halfway out, then thrusts back in, gentle but with a promise of Eros. Yuri bites his own lip but he does not let himself look away from the brown eyes focused on his own.

After a while, the thrusts become deeper, and Yuri can no longer hold his cries as the fat head of Yuuri’s penis pulls on his rim every time he pulls out, as his dick slides past his prostate when he pushes back inside. Yuuri is breathing hard, his mouth open, the white edges of his teeth peeking past his lips; Yuri leans up to kiss him and he sinks those cruel teeth into the inside of Yuri’s mouth, into the kind of kiss that leaves marks.

If they were going to pretend this never happened, wouldn’t Yuuri prefer to not leave a trace? Yuri wonders. Did he want to remember, want to look at Yuri’s swollen mouth in the morning and know the reason why? But why doesn’t matter, because Yuri will worry his tongue against the sore spot on the inside of his lip and _know_. Nothing will take the memory of this night from him except time.

Yuuri drives his cock inside with a harsh thrust to Yuri’s prostate, and the moan he lets out is so loud it spills from where their mouths are joined. “Like this,” Yuuri murmurs, and he repeats the action, over and over again in perfect time. His balls jostle against Yuri’s asscheeks with an obscene slap.

It’s too much. Yuri’s cock throbs between his legs. He’s been so good about not touching his dick wanting this to last as long as possible, but the pressure that’s building up inside him is nearly unbearable. He reaches down between his legs to squeeze himself, and his cock releases a small spurt of precum. Yuri moans--he’s so close, but he can’t take his hand off of his dick now. His whole dick lurches in his hand, all the way down to his balls. “Yuuri,” he breathes, and Yuuri knows.

“Come,” he says, his thrusts picking up in speed and intensity, “come, come, come,” he says, like it’s a chant, and Yuri does, in a hot wet arc all over his own chest.

Yuri’s insides clench as his cock spurts, and just a minute later, Yuuri lets go with a howl. His features are scrunched tight, except for his mouth which hangs open, panting wildly as he rocks his hips into Yuri’s hole, his semen slippery and warm where it pulses into Yuri’s ass.

They lie still and breathing heavily for a while before Yuuri spreads his cheeks and pulls his half-hard dick from Yuri’s hole. Yuri can feel the sticky slide as cum leaks out from the swollen muscle, and he hears the way that Yuuri’s breath catches at the sight. With Yuri’s cheeks still spread wide, Yuuri leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to his hole. He swipes his tongue across Yuri’s rim and down the inside of his crease where his cum has dribbled out.

“We taste so good together,” Yuuri breathes, finally extricating himself from between Yuuri’s legs to lie against his side. Yuri leans his head back to give him a kiss, wanting a taste for himself, and it’s true, they _do_...

Soon Yuuri breaks the kiss and brushes back Yuri’s hair to rest his forehead against the nape of his neck. Eventually, his breathing evens out, and Yuri guiltily gathers his clothing from the floor and dresses, careful to be as quiet as he possibly can. A quick glance at the bedside clock reveals that it’s 3:21 am; the lamp on the table is still on, illuminating Yuuri’s naked form, half-exposed by the sheets.

Yuri creeps quietly across the room to tuck him in and steals one last kiss--long and lingering and chaste against Yuuri’s lax lips, which are half-open in sleep. Then he turns off the light, locks the door, and walks down the hall to his own room. All the while, Yuri stands straight, refusing to let the burn in his ass make him skulk shamefully down the hall.

Because Yuri is not ashamed. To be ashamed implies you’ve done something worth regretting, and he doesn’t regret a thing.


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a multichapter fic! sorry everyone, i always forget to check off that box. we will eventually reach the well-negotiated poly, but we're gonna have another few thousand words of sexy suffering. just so you know....
> 
> i'm so tired and sick of looking at this chapter, so i'm just gonna hit post. if there's anything terrible lmk in the comments and i'll fix it.

“You look like you had fun last night.” Minami looks far too smug about this and Yuri wishes he had the energy to punch him.

“I’m hungover as hell and it hurts to listen to you. So do me a favor and shut up.” If Minami didn’t want to be told off, he should not have dared to wake Yuri up at this hour. After training together for two years, he ought to know better.

But Minami has long since become immune to Yuri’s tantrums. He simply hums softly as he packs his suitcase, not even bothering to be quiet as he does. “Looks like drinking wasn’t the only thing you got up to last night.”

“What?!” Yuri hopes that he sounds more angry than panicked. Had Minami seen--

Minami just chuckles and gestures at his own neck, holding the magnifying mirror he uses for performance makeup up to Yuri’s face. Yuri’s neck is covered in raw red marks, not-quite-hickeys. His pale skin has always bruised (as well as blushed) easily, and Yuri flushes red, which makes Minami laugh. 

“Fuck off,” Yuri mutters, but it only makes Minami cackle harder. 

“Who was it, Yuri?” Minami asks. “I didn’t see you leave with anyone last night.” He quirks his eyebrows as if he knows something he’s not saying, and Yuri tenses.

“None of your business,” Yuri says, attempting to roll onto the pillow but Minami snatches it out from under his head.

Yuri groans and pulls the blankets over his face. “I said  _ fuck off _ ,” he repeats.

“Whatever. Not my business. I heard you,” Minami smirks. His hair is not yet spiked, and it lies against his head, giving his skull a strangely flat appearance, but in the name of good sportsmanship Yuri kindly chooses not to comment on it. 

Thankfully, Minami leaves him the fuck alone after that until Yuri has to pack for the plane. He says nothing more than “You missed a spot” when Yuri wraps his leopard-print scarf around his neck. Minami gestures to a spot near his own Adam’s apple, and Yuri adjusts his scarf without even a word of thanks for the reminder. 

  
  
  


Yuuri’s waiting for them in the lobby, hair combed but not styled, wearing a smart sweater and glasses, looking altogether  _ normal _ . Yuri can’t tell whether he’s disappointed about this or not. He wishes there was some visible sign to prove that Yuuri remembers what has passed between them, but he looks just like he always does, typing something on his phone as his protegés approach. The gold ring on his finger flashes, and Yuri’s stomach turns. He chooses to blame it on the hangover.

Finally, Yuuri looks up and notices them, smiling and waving them over. Minami greets him effusively, but Yuri barely acknowledges his coach. He still hasn’t showered the evidence of last night away, and he wonders if Yuuri can smell himself on Yuri, if he knows how much Yuri  _ likes _ that thought.

But nothing about Yuuri indicates that anything is different at all. “Morning, Yuri,” he says, even though it’s two in the afternoon. “Kenjirou told me you skipped breakfast.”

Yuri makes a choked affirmative sound somewhere in his throat.

“I saved you something from the continental breakfast,” Yuuri says, handing him a small paper bag. Yuri nearly jumps as the soft wool of his sweater brushes against his own wrist and Yuuri’s fingers wind around the base of his hand, grasping for just a moment before letting go.

“Thank you,” Yuri says, thankful that he has enough hair in his face to hide his eyes from Yuuri’s own. He opens the bag, and there’s two muffins, both of them banana, Yuri’s favorite.

“Yuuri-kun, is that our cab?” Minami asks, gesturing to the car idling just outside the glass lobby doors.

Breaking his gaze, Yuuri looks down at his phone. “Hai, seems like it is.” He nods to the two young skaters. “ _ On y va! _ ” Viktor has been attempting to teach Yuuri to speak French, despite the fact that his husband has only barely managed to learn Russian after five years in St Petersburg.

Yuri snorts. “Your French accent is even worse than your Russian accent, piggy. You can barely even say  _ ballet _ positions properly, much less whole sentences.”

Yuuri clucks his tongue. “ _ Tais-toi _ , Yurio.” He taps Yuri on his back, just above his tailbone, a touch that lasts only a fraction of a second but lights Yuri up from the inside.

_ Fuck. _ How is he supposed to sit next to Yuuri on the plane for the next fourteen hours and not spontaneously combust? Yuri mutters a foul string of Russian words and curses his habit of wearing leggings on planes for maximum comfort. This was going to be a very long fourteen hours indeed....

 

 

The plane ride is every bit as bad as Yuri expects it to be. He’s hyperaware of his coach beside him, separated by nothing more than an armrest and a few inches. Close enough to notice that Yuuri’s showered: he smells like his fresh cologne with an undercurrent of the Scotch he’d been drinking last night.  Yuri pulls up his hoodie, puts his headphones in, then curls into himself and closes his eyes while he pretends to be asleep and thinks about Yuuri washing the evidence of their sex down the drain. He’s sad, then immediately angry at himself for feeling something so  _ stupid _ .

_ What did you think, idiot? _ Yuri asks himself.  _ Did you think he was going to go home to his husband stinking with your semen? _

Yuri has no one to go home to, no one to judge him except for his cat. Yuuri, on the other hand--

Well. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Yuri turns up the volume on his headphones, so loud that he hopes the shrieking guitars will drown out the thoughts in his head. Eventually, they do, and the next thing he knows, Yuuri is shaking him awake as they deplane in Pulkovo airport. His coach hails him a cab, informs the cabbie of Yuri’s address, then brushes the phantom of a kiss onto Yuri’s forehead, and Yuri’s not sure whether it’s a promise or a goodbye.

 

 

Yuri takes the next two days off from the rink. He’s not ready. He can’t face Yuuri and his husband like this, not when his neck is still red with Yuuri’s kiss, not when his skin crawls with the phantom of Yuuri’s hands.

He texted some weak excuse about coming down with a vague flying sickness to his coaches, but in reality, he’s been sitting on his couch watching bad television with his cat. When he’s not watching reality TV, he can barely keep his own hands off of himself. Yuri’s lost count of how many times he’s gotten off to the memory of Yuuri moving him across the dancefloor, moving against him and inside him. 

So Yuri closes his eyes, spreads his fingers inside his hole, and reaches for the places where Yuuri’s dick had opened him wide but his own fingers can’t quite reach.... 

He’s about to drift off after yet another orgasm when his phone pings. He looks over at the screen to see it’s Yuuri. He shakes his head-- _ how ironic _ \--then reads the message:  _ How are you feeling? Think you’ll make it to ballet tomorrow? _

Yuri types, erases, types again.  _ i think so. _

Only a moment later, a message pings back.  _ Good. I was worried about my favorite student. _

And Yuri falls asleep with his phone clutched in his hand, soft dick in the other, still trying to decipher what, precisely, Yuuri might mean by that.

 

 

Yuri bursts through the dance studio door. He’s a few minutes early for his private lesson with Katsuki, but he’s planned it this way. After all, there are things that need to be said, and Yuri intends to avoid giving either of them a chance to cop out of this conversation. 

When he arrives, Yuuri is standing in the far corner of the studio, chatting with Elena Samsovich, one of the juniors who joined his coaching practice last season. Elena’s a promising young Ukranian with a background in ballroom dance, and Yuuri’s helping her develop a signature style of ice dance using her existing skill set. 

Yuri strips out of his jacket, hat, and boots efficiently, then began his warmup at the barre. He repeats the endless series of  _ battements tendus et fondus _ , and the occasional  _ rondes de jambes, _ as he watches Yuuri counsel the young girl. She looks excited by Yuuri’s advice, and for some reason, Yuri feels proud of his coach.

Whatever. He likes watching Yuuri with the other skaters, so what? The man is a damn good coach, perhaps even better a coach than a skater. His choreography is certainly nothing short of brilliant: Yuuri works with a skater’s natural rhythm and flexibility to develop programs that showcase their greatest skills. In little more than a year under his tutelage, Elena has developed a unique waltz- and polonaise-inflected skate style, a style that was all her own. 

But Yuuri’s choice for Yuri’s choreography is ballet, the style of dance they both love more than any other. This year’s no exception. It’s the first routine choreographed for Yuri by Yuuri and Yuuri alone, a particularly intense fragment from Cesar Franck’s underrated masterpiece  _ Psyche et Eros,  _ detailing the moment when Psyche removes the mask from her mysterious lover.

Without breaking eye contact with Yuuri in the mirror, Yuri begins the choreography for his free skate. The opening steps are slow, deliberate things, full of gravity. Yuri takes a deep breath and tips his head back, then thrusts himself into an acrobatic series of  _ coupe jetes _ and  _ arabesques _ . He crosses the dancefloor on a diagonal to finish with a fouette en tournant. His hair loosens itself from the sloppy bun to fall around his face as Yuri twists his body into the shape of the dance, becoming Psyche to the sound of the music...

The violins screech into crescendo, and Yuri hurls himself through the air. If he were on the ice, this would be the combination jump, a quad salchow, triple loop, triple flip, but on the wooden floor of the studio, Yuri just enjoys the feeling of weightlessness as he spins himself on the balls of his feet, arms draped gracefully over his head while his blonde hair flares out around him. 

... Psyche, who was so beautiful that Eros betrayed his own mother Aphrodite, in order to have her. Psyche, whose husband Eros could not show himself to her, but who had torn the mask off of him and demanded that he show her his true self. Psyche, whose love for Eros was so strong that she outsmarted the jealous goddess Aphrodite to be united with her true love...

Yuri holds an  _ arabesque en dessous _ , then extends his leg parallel to the ground. He uses the resulting momentum put his weight on his rear foot, then turn and launch himself into a flying half-split. He comes down on the heels of both feet, then crumples into himself, grabbing his hair and lingering for a moment before he steps to the center of the room to complete a series of  _ fouettes ronde de jambes _ . 

.... And it’s impossible for Yuri to reflect on his inner Psyche without also reflecting on Yuuri’s inner Eros. He can’t dance this piece without remembering the Onsen on Ice, how Yuuri discovered his Eros seemingly overnight--at fifteen, Yuri hadn’t even been able to  _ watch _ without embarrassing himself. He’d had to excuse himself halfway through the performance to lock himself into a stall and shove the hem of his t-shirt into his own mouth to keep silent as he took dick in hand...

The dance’s final steps are its most acrobatic, a triple _ tour _ into a double  _ tour diagnale _ . Yuri lands the spin in a lunge, then lets his body be drawn forward as if by invisible hands. With a lurch, he mimes being tossed across the floor by that same invisible force.

... Of course, Yuuri has to know. When he picked this piece, when he wrote this story with the lines of his body with Yuri in mind, Yuuri had to know what he was doing, what he was saying, had to know that Yuri would hear him as he dances in Yuuri’s footsteps....

With his skates, Yuri would bend his knees and lean backward into a layback spin now, trying to get as parallel to the ice as possible. But here, he throws himself onto his knees on the wooden floor and draws his hands together in a gesture of prayer, then bends backwards until his shoulders touch the ground. He reaches his arms to the sky, then lifts his torso forward to force himself up into the final pose, which feels far too much like a gesture of supplication. 

Yuri hangs his head between his knees and breathes, flinching when he feels the stretch tug his dance belt against his hole, still raw from the frantic masturbation of the last two days. His whole body is wracked with the kind of want that will not wane. Lying prostrate on the studio floor, Yuri feels Psyche down to the core of him: her desire for her lover, all her resolve to stand up to a goddess for a chance to belong to Eros once more.

“You’re stiff today,” Yuuri observes, his voice even and flat.

Yuri forces his legs wider. His dance belt rides up a bit higher, but he bites his lip against it. Refusing to flinch, he relaxes into it the best he can. The feeling is dangerously close to another, sweeter, kind of pain...

Yuuri, however, can see that Yuri’s flexibility is not the only thing that has suffered since Salt Lake. “Yuri, are you... OK?” he asks in that same flat voice. His brown eyes rest on Yuri’s own green in the mirror as he offers a hesitant hand to help Yuri to his feet. 

“Of course I’m not fucking  _ okay _ , OK?” Yuri grumbles, standing with both feet on the floor. “It’s been days, and you still haven’t said shit about shit, so--” Yuri takes in a deep breath and cuts himself off. “Whatever. Why am I even talking to you? You probably don’t even  _ remember, _ ” Yuri spits. He turns and takes a step toward the door, ready to leave this mess behind.

If Yuuri was too drunk to remember that night, then what does that say about Yuri? He doesn’t consider it. 

“Yuri.” His name rumbles out of Yuuri's chest, dark and ominous. “I remember.”

Yuri’s eyes prick with angry tears. “Yeah? What do you remember, then, you stupid piggy  _ asshole _ ?” His voice is hoarse and full of hate and he almost wishes he could take that night in Salt Lake City back, yet he hates that he’s selfish enough to want to hold onto it forever.

“I remember the way you look when you come,” Yuuri says, so quiet it’s almost a whisper. “Your hair in my mouth when we kiss.” His fingers clench into themselves at his sides, as though he is trying desperately to keep from holding onto Yuri by holding onto himself instead. 

Yet Yuri feels those fingers as surely as if they’ve been grabbing at him. “I can’t stop thinking about you inside me,” he confesses. Yuri feels at once shameless and startled by the way he says the forbidden words: “I fuck my own hand and I just want you more.” He’s choking on his own audacity as he speaks, but he doesn’t want to take it back. Couldn’t, even if he tried.

Neither man moves. The air between them is ripe with want, so fragrant that it threatens to go rotten at any moment.

“Yuri.” Yuuri says his name like it’s a plea. 

Yuri raises himself nearly  _ en point _ ; the position makes him an inch or so taller than his coach. Yuri leans down, tilting his head to press his mouth against Yuuri’s own...

“Not here,” Yuuri says, a moment before his protege’s lips touch his, and Yuri sinks bank onto the flat of his feet, then closes his mouth. 

Part of Yuri, the tiger part, wants to say  _ fuck that _ and fuck Yuuri stupid right here in front of the mirrored studio walls, to make Yuuri look into his own eyes and acknowledge the desire Yuri sees in them. But the kitten in him knows that it’s dangerous, that the moment someone discovers them this will be gone for good, and Yuri’s not ready to give this up, not when he’s only had it once. He hasn’t had his fill, and he doesn’t mind waiting as long as he can have  _ more. _

Obediently, Yuri pulls back. He nods.

“Friday night,” Yuuri murmurs. “Viktor’s going with Chris to a football game.” Yuuri makes a face, and Yuri hums in sympathy. They both share a deep and intense dislike for football and hockey, while Viktor follows both sports casually. Yuri suspect he’s more into it for the opportunity to drink and ogle men at the peak of their masculinity, but finding out for sure requires a conversation he never wants to have.

“Friday night,” he repeats. “Spend the night.” It’s the one thing Yuri wants more than anything else. Anyone can leave in the middle of the night and it doesn’t mean anything. But waking up next to someone is different, even if Yuri can’t say why.

Yuuri nods. It’s not quite a promise, but it’s a close thing. Close enough, at least, for now. He steps away from Yuri with a lingering look, and restarts the music. They workshop Yuri’s choreography, focusing on the timing of his steps and spins to the music for the rest of their hour.

The final few minutes of Yuri’s ballet lessons are always his favorite. He and Yuuri have recently taken to dancing a  _ pas de deux _ of sorts at the end of each session together. It’s a half-improvised thing wherein Yuuri and Yuri take turns supporting each other in lifts and leading. A slow, longing, aching sort of dance, into which Yuri pours all of his longing. It’s a private thing, after all, for between these studio walls only. It’s not for anyone else to see.

So Yuri balances on his left leg, placing his right foot on Yuuri’s shoulder, then bends forward into Yuuri’s embrace. Yuuri yields to him, leaning back to support Yuri’s weight for a long beat before he stands to catches Yuri after a weightless moment.

Then Yuri lowers his left leg to the side, opening his hips to his coach as Yuuri draws him into a standing position by his hands. Yuri chances a look at the mirror to admire the way his body heaves against his partner’s... 

But that’s when Yuri notices Minami standing at the open door. It’s impossible to tell how long he’s been watching he and Yuuri dance, to know how much of the story Minami can read from the movement of their bodies. Something about his expression says that it’s enough.

“Sensei?” Minami asks timidly. Yuri’s never heard him speak so quietly. “Am I--interrupting something?”

Yuuri lets go of Yuri’s waist and turns to look at his other protege. “Kenji,” he greets with a smile and nod, a bit flustered, but it’s nothing compared to how Yuri must look with his pale skin so prone to pinkening. “No, no. We were just practicing a... thing...” Yuuri stammers, as Yuri heads over to the barre to complete his cooldown in silence. 

While Yuuri guides Minami through his a series of  _ rondes des jambes _ to begin his warmup, Yuri rushes through his cooldown exercises at the barre in the far corner. All the while, he’s careful to keep his eyes focused on his own form in the mirrored studio walls. There’s an accusation in Minami’s gaze that Yuri doesn’t want to see, so he doesn’t bother looking. It takes a long time until Yuri can breathe normally, and even then, his heart doesn’t stop racing until long after his feet have begun to ache.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man. i have so many people to thank for this chapter: but before anything else, big extra-special awesome thanks to [@kinoglowworm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoGlowWorm/pseuds/KinoGlowWorm) for helping me to develop the characters and the timeline of this story. thanks to [@boxwineconfession](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions) [@muspell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Muspell/pseuds/Muspell) [@phayte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/pseuds/Phayte) [@imagines](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines) for listening to me angst over chat about how to make this hell chapter happen and [modernart2012](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ModernArt2012/pseuds/ModernArt2012) for the beta work.
> 
> thanks to everyone for your comments and support! this fic is really pushing my skills as a writer, and your encouragement definitely helped to push the muse and i through all the difficult parts. i hope that y'all enjoy this chapter.

“Yuri!” Viktor exclaims, throwing an arm over Yuri’s shoulder as soon as he sees him. “Congratulations on the silver at Skate America!”

“Big deal. It was just silver,” Yuri mumbles, pushing Viktor off of him as he leans down to remove his skate guards. He’s unprepared for the wave of nausea that wracks him when Viktor touches him. Luckily it dissipates as soon as he succeeds in shrugging Viktor off.

For all the fluidity with which Yuri had danced _Psyche et Eros_ in the studio, today, on the ice, he’s an awkward, stumbling mess. He’s hyperconscious of every movement of Viktor’s eyes, tracing Yuri’s figure as he glides across the ice, assessing.

“You’re stumbling, Yuri,” Viktor says from his position at the rink’s edge, as if Yuri couldn’t tell for himself just how clumsily he’s skated. “Once more. From the start.”

“Yeah, yeah, _starikashka,_ ” Yuri grumbles, but he skates out to center ice anyway, uncharacteristically self-conscious beneath Viktor’s gaze.

“Ahh, you’re not getting any younger yourself,” Viktor fires back, but it’s good-natured. He’s long ago learned not to take Yuri’s unpleasant demeanor personally, although Yuri certainly takes Viktor’s optimism and extroversion personally still. Though many people have assured him that it’s just _Viktor_ , that’s just how he is, Yuri is certain Viktor dials it up when they’re together just to annoy him.

Yuri rolls his eyes, and takes his free skate from the top, one more time. But he still stumbles twice; he even has to drop a leg to catch his balance when his mind wanders to Yuuri during an especially shaky Beilmann. Under Viktor’s watchful eyes, Yuri can barely transition from one step to the next without stumbling. It’s been a long time since he’s been this clumsy on skates, at least since his growth spurt at 16 when he was fighting to find his balance...

“You’re holding yourself back,” Viktor calls from the rink’s edge. His eyes narrow, and he’s doing that thing he always does, pressing his index finger against his lips and chin as he watches someone skate. “Give yourself to the choreography, Yuri.”

 _Not with you watching,_ Yuri thinks. Because if he were to do that, he’d be thinking of Viktor’s husband’s lithe brown body, above, behind, and inside him. If he were to give himself over to the music while Viktor watches Yuri’s body bend, Viktor would _see_ . He would _know_ . There will be no way to hide the things Yuri’s body knows: the way his muscles move will give it away and somehow his coach will recognize Yuuri’s hands in the shapes Yuri’s body makes on the ice. Somehow Viktor will _know_ how Yuuri has touched him, even if the red scrapes he’d left behind have already faded from Yuri’s neck.

Yuri squares his shoulders, pulling his spine straight. _You don’t have to be ashamed,_ he reminds himself. The hesitation makes him flub the entry to his first combo, a triple-double, and he steps out on the landing, his palm scraping the surface of the ice. Yuri pushes himself back up, only half a beat behind, getting back on the beat just in time for his final combo.

He lowers himself onto the ice into his final pose, knees to his chest as he splays his torso forward, elbows kissing its hard, cold surface. His chest is heaving, and as soon as he stills, Viktor immediately begins critiquing the lackluster performance. “This is not how you won a silver medal in Salt Lake City, Yuri,” he chastises, then follows up with a long list of criticisms.

The rest of the practice passes in a blur--Viktor makes him repeat his spin and jump combos for the rest of their session. Yuri can’t help but be relieved: somehow it’s easier to perform the elements for _Psyche et Eros_ in isolation, even with Viktor watching. At least, he can keep from thinking about Yuuri if he’s not following Yuuri’s dance, and he supposes that’s good enough.

At the end of their practice, Viktor looks at his watch. “What do you say to lunch? I don’t have another student for an hour and a half.” Yuri tries to make an excuse, but Viktor cuts him off. “My treat.”

Yuri rolls his eyes but eventually acquiesces. It would just look weird otherwise--Yuri shamelessly cadges lunch off of his coaches a few times a week, sometimes Yuuri, sometimes, Viktor, usually both. They treat him more often than not; for some reason, both Viktor and Katsudon get some perverse pleasure out of feeding him. “Fine,” Yuri grumbles. The last thing he needs is for Viktor to start asking questions, after all.

“Meet me in the lobby in five?”

“I need to shower.” Yuri usually prefers his own shower, where he can take as long as he wants and indulge himself, but the longer he can procrastinate in the locker room, the less time he’ll have to spend staring at Viktor’s face, certain that he’s going to let something he shouldn’t slip.

But Viktor brushes him off. “Shower at home like you always do. Aren’t you hungry?”

Yuri has to admit that he is. Anything else would just be weird.

 

 

In the locker room, Yuri pulls on his sweatshirt and sneakers, tossing his practice clothes and dance equipment in his bag. For a moment he hesitates, debating whether to bring his backpack to the restaurant, ultimately deciding against it. He’s got a few more dirty shirts and socks at the bottom of his locker, and can’t be bothered to drag a bag of stinking gym clothes along with him.

Besides, if Viktor wants to eat out, they won’t be going far from the rink; he can just pick up all his dirty laundry later. Yuri closes his locker door, spinning the combo absentmindedly to lock it just in time for Viktor to come and drag him outside with an impatient whine. “Yuri, I’m so hungry!”

Yuri snorts. Even though he’s annoying as fuck, he can’t help but be endeared by Viktor’s playfulness. Especially because it gives him the perfect opportunity to tease right back. “I’m almost ready,” he says, shrugging on his Team Russia jacket over his hoodie. “Relax, old man. It’s not like you’re going to die of it.”

He flashes one of his more dangerous smirks, and Viktor laughs. For a moment, it is like it always is--he and Viktor, gently teasing each other in a way that belies the decade of familiarity between them, though usually Yuri would at least let out a low, dangerous chuckle (the kind that sounds like nothing so much as a growl) along with him. But Yuri’s smirk fades silently, and he chews on the inside of his cheek, considering.

It’s weird, Yuri thinks, making him laugh like this, all the while knowing that he’d fucked Viktor’s husband just a few days ago, knowing that he will fuck Viktor’s husband in a few days’ time while Viktor gets carelessly drunk and cheers on men in shorts as they chase a ball around a field, blissfully unaware. Sitting across from him at the table like this feels wrong in a way that fucking Yuuri _doesn’t_ , and Yuri feels a stab of something--perhaps guilt?--but stifles it.

Why should _Yuri_ feel guilty, when Yuuri was the one who’d called him beautiful, when Yuuri was the one who had kissed him in the first place? When it had been Yuuri to whisper _Friday night_ into the shell of Yuri’s ear? No, Yuri tells himself. You can still be friends with someone, even when you’re fucking his husband. Even if he doesn’t know.

Not for the first time that day, Yuri straightens his spine, squares his shoulders, and squints his eyes, imagining himself looking every bit like a blonde and deadly big cat glaring at everyone who dares to make eye contact with him, Viktor included. Inexplicably, the old man seems to find this expression hilarious, and teases Yuri the whole walk to the nearby cafe.

This place is one of their regular lunch spots, nothing fancy--simple food, with plenty of options healthy enough not to mess up a meal plan. There are a few younger skaters Yuri recognizes already seated at the counter, and Viktor chats good-naturedly with them as they wait for their meal in their booth.

Yuri’s fine with that. It gives him a chance to be silent. At least these novices know enough to leave him alone, and he scrolls through Instagram on his phone, blissfully ignored. Otabek’s posted a video of himself with his new girlfriend riding dirt bikes in the mountains surrounding Almaty, and Yuri zooms for a closer look. She’s different from what he’d expected, short-haired and stout with piercings and tattoos, but she and Otabek look happy together...

The waiter deposits their lunches on the table, and Viktor excuses himself to the young skaters who’ve been crowding around the table, who get the hint and leave them alone. For once, Yuri doesn’t feel relieved. He’s still hyperaware of Viktor watching him, conscious of every move he makes. Yuri feels like a visitor from an alien planet, trying to be normal but not quite succeeding; he just ends up staring at his plate.

“You know, it’s unfortunate that your free skate was so uneven today. It was really something at Skate America,” Viktor said, swiping one of Yuri’s fries. Usually Yuri’s thankful for Viktor’s bluntness, how he skips straight past the small talk, but he’s not ready for this. He bares his teeth, but Viktor ignores him, chiding, “Easy, tiger. Remember, this is my treat.” At least he seems to think it's about the fries...

Yuri mutters a half-hearted curse, but lets Viktor steal a few more fries off his plate. “Did you really think so?” he asks, taking a bite of his sandwich. He hopes Viktor won’t notice the way that his breath has gone shallow and rapid as he chews.

Viktor nods emphatically. “Yuuri had me watch the footage a few times.” He watches his student hastily swallow his mouthful of food, waiting for his reaction.

“So?” Yuri says, doing his best to sound indignant as always although the mention of Yuuri is enough to make his stomach lurch. He puts down his sandwich, suddenly no longer hungry. He doesn’t even protest when Viktor grabs another handful of fries.

“Well, he’s right. You could really feel the emotion in the performance,” Viktor says. He taps his lips with his index finger in his habitual gesture of assessment. “But I’m not sure it felt like redemption anymore.”

Yuri nods. He’s been considering something similar in the last few weeks, about what the dance of Psyche and Eros says to him. But instead of answering Viktor, he blinks and bites his sandwich.

“Do you still think redemption is still an appropriate theme for your programs this season?” Viktor prods.

“Isn’t it a little late to change my themes?”.

“Well, officially. But unofficially, a program can.... evolve.”

Well. Viktor has a point. It’s happened to Yuri before, most notably with _Agape_. By the end of the season, Yuri’s understanding of selfless love was nothing like what it had been at the start. He shrugs and takes a sip of his smoothie. “I guess... the way I understand the music and the choreography has changed.”

“Oh?” Viktor asks.

Yuri grits his teeth. “Well, when Yuuri first showed me the dance, I was more focused on how Psyche betrayed Eros’s trust by removing his mask. And how Eros betrayed her in turn by going back to Aphrodite, instead of staying with his wife.” He taps his fingers on the tabletop, desperate for something to fidget with, and it pleases him that the old, cheap wood splinters beneath his fingernails. The prick of the wood digging into Yuri’s skin grounds him as he considers how to say enough without saying too much. “So redemption made sense, because they had to redeem their love after betraying each other....”

“Yes, that’s right,” Viktor agrees. “In the legend, Psyche has to complete three tasks for Aphrodite to prove her love for him, and Eros has to rescue Psyche from the goddess’s wrath--”

With a nod, Yuri interrupts, “But the more I practice the routine, the more I feel like the dance is really about their devotion to each other.” He’s tapping the worn wooden tabletop nervously, which yields beneath his fingernails, and Yuri wonders absently if the marks he leaves will be permanent. “Their love was so strong that Zeus made Psyche immortal, so she and Eros could love each other forever...” Yuri feels his ears flush pink. For a moment he’s worried he may have said too much.

But Viktor seems oblivious; if anything, he’s inspired by the idea. “So now your theme this season is devotion,” he finishes for Yuri.

“Yeah.” Yuri swallows. “Devotion.” As he repeats the word, it sticks to his tongue. _Devotion_. It describes something about how Yuri’s felt for the last few days--and perhaps for much, much longer than that.

Actually, now that Yuri thinks about it, it makes a lot of sense for the program. Viktor’s not completely stupid after all...

“Respect your elders, Yurio,” Viktor says, affectionately ruffling his blonde hair. But he’s looking at Yuri differently, as though the younger skater has said something he hadn’t meant to say aloud.

His coach is quiet for the rest of their lunch, but babbles as usual the whole way back to the rink, so Yuri attributes the increasingly uneasy feeling in his gut to his own anxiety.

 

 

Once at the rink. Yuri means to just stop in, and grab his gear, dirty socks and all, but Minami has different plans, it seems.

“I saw you at the Veselka cafe, you know,” Minami says. “You have a lot of nerve, going to lunch with Viktor like that...” His voice, normally a high-pitched squawk, has dropped an octave in an imitation of what Yuri supposes must be Minami’s version of menace.

Yuri squints and shakes his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, rooster.” But his heart beats a little faster in his chest all the same.

Minami disregards the less-than-flattering nickname. “I saw you practicing your choreography with Yuuri-sensei,” he says. “You’ve become something of a teacher’s pet, huh?”

“Minami, don’t start shit.” Yuri’s voice is deep and even. He’s already exhausted from having spent the last several hours with Viktor, having to pretend everything is still the same. He doesn’t have it in him to pretend with Minami too.

The rooster squawks. “I know what I saw, Yurio.”

The nickname pisses Yuri off. “I don’t care what you think you saw.” He kicks the locker door, satisfied by the echoing _clang_. “You didn’t see shit. Katsuki’s a dirty dancer. Haven’t you ever seen the pics from Sochi?” He glares at Minami, hoping he will get the point and fuck off.

“He doesn’t dance like that with _me_. Or any of his other students, for that matter.”

“Maybe you’re just not good enough,” Yuri shrugs. He’s seen Minami dance, and Yuuri is talented, but not even he can fix the man’s lack of natural rhythm and grace. It’s testament to Yuuri’s ability as a coach that Minami’s even become a serious Grand Prix contender over the last two years, regardless of the fact that he hasn’t yet gotten gold in an international competition. “Whatever. It’s not like it means anything. It’s just... fun.” Yuri tosses the last of his dirty rink clothes into his bag, then turns from Minami to zip his backpack.

Minami cocks his head. “If you say so.” His tone is a little too condescending to be innocent.

Yuri sighs. The kid is pecking like a chicken for scraps of information and the stiff red plume of hair at the top of his head looks all too much like a rooster’s comb. “Christ, Minami, will you _think_ about what you’re saying?” He slams his locker door shut. It sounds final. “Viktor and Katsuki are married, OK? You could really fuck up a marriage if you go around accusing shit like that. Especially if you don’t _know_.” He stares at the wall of lockers in front of him, willing Minami to get the fucking point and fuck off already.

But he doesn’t go anywhere. “That’s rich,” Minami snorts. “Last time I checked, flirting with a married man was--”

“Shut. Up!” Yuri yells. His voice rings off the tiles in the empty locker room. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, rooster-boy.” He crosses his arms. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t go and fuck up Yuuri’s marriage because you’re jealous about the way he _dances_ with me. He’s my fucking dance coach.” Yuri’s cheeks burn, but he hopes that Minami will attribute it to nothing more than anger--Yuri’s supposed to be shameless. He proved that at fifteen with his improvised exhibition skate after his first Grand Prix gold; he doesn’t have to prove it again. Especially not to Minami, not now.

Minami’s nostrils flare. He pauses a moment before he speaks. “I’m not so sure that I’m the one who’s jealous.” His eyes narrow, and the chickenlike red quiff on his head wobbles, the overall effect recalling a very specific threat. “You can say what you want, Yuri. But when I speak up, I won’t be wrong.”

“Whatever,” Yuri says, reaching down for his bag and elbowing past Minami. “It’s just dancing. I don’t give a fuck what you think.” But it’s not until he’s a block from the rink that he’s finally calm enough to take a deep breath.

Because it’s _not_ just a dance. It’s _everything,_ and as soon as Yuri thinks it, he immediately hates how much he sounds like his dramatic-assed teenage self, fifteen years old and already in love with man already in love with someone else.

 

 

For some reason, the empty apartment is making Yuri anxious, so he invites Mila over for video games even though the only game she’s any good at is Street Fighter. She only knows how to play two characters--Chun Li and Ryu--but damn, she is ruthless.

“How are you so good at this? All you do is button mash,” Yuri mutters after the third knockout.

Mila tosses a handful of gummy bears into her mouth. “I know how to exploit my enemy’s weakness,” she says.

“You literally suck at every other video game except this one.” He tries to grab a handful of bears from the package she’s clutching on her lap, and Mila tuts, snatching the candy closer.

“Uh-uh. I won these fair and square. These bears are mine. If you didn’t want to lose them, you shouldn’t have bet the whole thing,” she warns. “What do you want to bet now?”

Yuri looks at his diminished pile of candy. There’s only a handful of sour straws and some marshmallows left, while Mila’s swells with her earnings. “I’m not betting you shit on this game,” he says. “Maybe if we played Smash Brothers instead--”

“No way. You’d just get pissed at me for dying all the time and not being any fun to play.”

Yuri slurps a pink sour straw into his mouth. Mila has a point--he would do exactly that. “Fine. Lemme change characters,” he mutters, acquiescing.

“Like that’s ever helped you,” Mila scoffs. “Anyway, gimme a minute. I’m thirsty.” She stands up and stretches. “You want anything?”

“Some juice,” Yuri murmurs, distracted, and he unlocks his phone as she steps away.

It’s from Yuuri--just a simple message, nothing more than _I’ll see you Friday. Told Vitya we’ll be drinking, might be better if I stayed over...._

Yuri types back, _you’re welcome anytime,_ hoping Yuuri knows the way he means it.

Mila taps him with the glass of dark tart cherry juice to distract his attention from the screen, where Yuri is currently fixated on watching the dots flicker while Yuuri types his response. “Heeeey, look at that. You’re smiling,” she teases.

She’s smiling too, looking genuinely happy for him. Yuri feels a pang--if only she _knew_ \--but he knows better than to say anything. “What?” he says instead. harsher than he means to.

Mila hums, knowing him too well to get angry about it. “Who are you texting to make you smile like that?”

Yuri’s brow furrows. “No one.”

“You were texting _someone,_ ” she insists. “Aww, Yurio has a crush! About time anyway.”

She says nothing more, but Yuri knows what she means. It’s been more than eight months since he and Otabek went their separate ways. Hell, Otabek’s even got a girlfriend now, and Kazakh skater does _not_ talk to people.

“I do not,” Yuri insists in a weak protest. “I hate everyone. That includes you.”

Mila laughs and threatens to toss the controller at him, then proceeds to win six more rounds of Street Fighter in a row before Yuri kicks her out for the night.

 

 

It’s late when Yuuri's next message comes through. Yuri’s in bed with his cat lazily watching a movie on his laptop, half asleep when his phone buzzes.

 _Goodnight, Yusha,_ the text reads. The next is more teasing: the three dots dance for a minute though the resulting text is short: _Don’t forget to stretch before practice. You looked stiff this morning._

 _Well, you’re one to talk, piggy._  He hesitates, then types _, You’re not as flexible as you used to be._ Yuri punctuates the text with the liberal use of the pig emoji.

Yuuri sends back a blushing emoji with glasses, which makes Yuri flush in turn. The exchange itself isn’t incriminating when taken at face value, but the implication--

 _Friday is going to be fun,_ Yuri dares to send _._ A moment later.... _Maybe even as much fun as dance class today._

Yuuri types for a minute before the text comes through. _bad kitty._

Yuri rolls his eyes, then types something, deletes it, and types again. _Goodnight, pig. I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow._

_See you. Can’t wait for Friday._

Yuri turns the phone face-down, and puts it on the bedside table. It’s better just to cut this off before it gets rated R, he supposes. Otherwise, he will be tempted to take Yuuri’s teasing advice literally--sure, he’ll stretch himself, stretch his asshole around his own fingers, that is...

Yuri groans and collapses back onto the pillows dramatically. His cat opens her eyes and moves her ears back in a question for which he has no answer, so he settles for petting her until her purring lulls him into restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yusha": a Russian diminutive of Yuri, which also means "hero" in Japanese


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for sticking with this fic. i know that my WIPs have not seen a lot of love lately, but i haven't given up on any of them. my job is in its busy season, so updates are likely to be sporadic until winter. hope you all will stick around for more despite the slower updates. <3
> 
> welcome to the madness: drops. the fandom: let's freak out over otayuri. me, nonconformist that i am: but look at yuri copying yuuri's eros! and thus, another chapter of this angst was born.
> 
> thanks to [Phayte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/pseuds/Phayte), [meimagino](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines), & [kinoglowworm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoGlowWorm/pseuds/KinoGlowWorm) for their help editing this chapter, and for all their help headcanonning this fic with me.

Yuri wakes up late the next morning, arriving at the studio fifteen minutes after ten on an empty stomach to interrupt Yuuri at the barre. He’s practicing some stretching exercise, moving seamlessly between positions, eyes fixed on the line of his own body in the mirrored wall.

For several long seconds, Yuri does not stir from the doorway--he simply watches his _maestro_ move in the mirror, the arc of Yuuri’s leg as he holds his thigh against his chest, the way his ribcage strains beneath his muscles as he swings his leg back into a standing split. Yuri is captivated, unable to look away despite himself, despite the reflexes that insist he’s intruding on something private.

Yuuri leans his torso backward to grasp his ankle, then jumps when he notices his student’s reflection behind him, waiting, watching.

He turns to face Yuri, weight on the ball of his right foot. It’s a move so graceful it takes Yuri a moment to remember how to breathe-- _this_ , this more than anything, is the reason he fell in love with Yuuri Katsuki the very first time he saw him skate in person: his motions make you hear the melody, even when no music plays. Only Yuuri Katsuki can infuse a simple _tour_ with emotion loud enough for anyone watching to hear the longing in his movements, sweet and sonorous like a single violin wailing a minor chord.

“Hey,” Yuri says, swallowing the sip of bitter brew that he’s been holding in his mouth while watching. He puts his coffee and his bag down on the floor, opening his arms--

And Yuuri jumps into them with a flawless _jete battu_. They hug for a moment, just holding each other, neither moving to kiss nor draw together more closely. Yuri closes his eyes--the other man is warm and solid, a little soft around the middle but firm with the muscle underneath. Yuuri smells different when he’s sober--clean and sharp with citrus, rather than smoky malted scotch and sweat.

Yuri breathes deep, and his empty stomach fills with heat. He’s suddenly thankful he’d worn his new dance belt today, not one of the old ones with the stretched elastic. At least his dick won't betray him, held tightly in place by the stiff spandex.

Reluctantly, with one last long lingering breath, he pulls himself away from Yuuri, who looks back with blown pupils, a hint of a flush on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. They have not even kissed, and yet Yuuri looks _wrecked...._

 _I wrecked him_ , Yuri thinks, and feels a grin stretching across his face. He’s proud even though it’s the kind of thing he has to keep for himself.

“Sorry, I--” Yuuri stammers, closing his eyes as if to collect his thoughts. “I didn’t mean--it’s just, you’re so _beautiful_ \--”

“You say that word to me a lot,” Yuri interrupts, surprised at the low timbre of his voice. “But if you could only see what I see...” he continues, voice fading to a near-whisper, “the way you _move_ , Yuuri...” He swallows, unable to say more.

At that, Yuuri turns from him, walking to the center of the room with a sashay that sends a ripple down the ample flesh of his backside. He has to know--has to know what he’s doing to Yuri when he moves like _that--_

Then Yuuri draws his spine erect from his toes to the crown of his head, the posture of a _maestro_ : straight and stern, imposing. He turns to Yuri, eyes are still mostly black, somehow managing to look down his nose at his taller pupil. “Show me,” Yuuri says, in the kind of confident and strong voice that seems at odds with his soft features and sensitive personality. He cocks his head suggestively to the barre.

Yuri obeys, beginning his warm-up exercises, starting with shallow stretches for the first set. Gradually, he opens his muscles and leans into the movements. All the while he can feel Yuuri staring at him from the center of the room, can see his reflection in the glass behind the barre, yet Yuri somehow doesn’t notice him drawing closer until he feels the warm palm closing around his thigh.

Yuuri tightens his grip on Yuri’s leg to draw it straighter, letting his fingers linger a moment too long. Yuri’s next stretch is sloppy on purpose; Yuuri quirks his mouth with a knowing smirk, but he bends Yuri’s body into position all the same. He guides his student through the rest of his warm-up manually, touches more than a tease, nearly a promise.

Yuri doesn’t think, he just lets himself be moved. And when Yuuri deems him loose enough, he steps back into the center of the room, once again the stern ballet teacher. “Show me your Pysche and your Eros,” he murmurs, and when Yuri braces himself for the first staggering steps of his program, his teacher ducks into the far corner, where he can watch Yuri in the mirrors without interfering with his movements.

For the rest of the hour, Yuri dances. Yuuri watches. At the end of their session, Yuuri draws close to him in an anxious step, and Yuri shakes his head. He wants to--dancing with Yuuri is as sweet as sex, considering the number of times he’s jerked off to it--but Minami’s private instruction is just after his own. It’s not worth the risk, he reminds himself as he watches Yuuri’s face fall.

“I understand,” Yuuri murmurs, then disappears from the studio, leaving Yuri to work through his cooldown on his own. It’s better this way, for them to cool down separately after practice. This way, Minami can’t see the way they work each other up...

Of course, Minami barges through the door five minutes early, closing the door gently behind as if attempting to sneak in unnoticed and interrupt something. He shoots Yuri a dirty glare when all he sees is Yuri alone, arching into a standing split. The rooster seems almost disappointed that he hasn’t caught Yuri doing something incriminating. Serves him right: the little bastard has always been more devious than his extroverted demeanor and cartoonlike appearance would suggest.

Yuri huffs and raises his nose as Minami sloppily works through his positions, keeping a critical eye on the rooster boy as he shifts from second to third and fourth. “There’s certainly no way he’ll ever pair dance with you if _that’s_ what you call a plie,” he snorts.

The rooster sneers, about to say something rude when Katsuki reenters the room. Suddenly, he’s all smiles and cheerfulness as he greets their instructor. The fake kindness makes Yuri want to retch.

He doesn’t bother to say goodbye when he leaves, thankful for the fact that he’s going to the gym this afternoon instead of the rink. One thing is for sure--Yuri can’t trust himself to skate for Viktor like this, drawn so tight with his desire for Yuuri he’s sure it will burst out of him the moment someone prods him too harshly, bursting like pus from an abscess. 

Perhaps between now and Friday he will find some kind of discretion. But with the way Yuri’s cock hangs thick and heavy between his legs as he discards his dance belt to change into the basketball shorts he wears in the weight room, he doubts that it will happen so soon.

 

 

Yuri calls his grandfather that night. He’s been strangely restless all day, and seeing his grandfather’s familiar features through the screen of his laptop is almost as comforting as a hug. “Dedushka,” he says in greeting, because it’s all he’s ever had to say.

His grandfather understands. He answers in his own taciturn way. “Yurochka.” He nods solemnly. “I saw you win a medal in America.”

“Just a silver,” Yuri says, humble in a way he is not naturally.

Nikolai looks at him. “You deserved it,” his grandfather says with the matter-of-fact wisdom of the old. The words, for all their bluntness, are not unkind.

“I really like my program this year,” Yuri admits.

“It shows,” his grandfather says. He coughs discreetly into his palm on the computer screen, but it does not stop him from lighting one of his foul cigars.

“Dedushka!” Yuri exclaims, scandalized. “I thought you quit.”

“Quiet,” Nikolai scoffs. “You’re too young to deny an old man his pleasures.” He strikes another match and takes a few puffs, finally getting the cigar to light properly before he leans back in his worn and sagging armchair. “Your free skate was very beautiful.”

Yuri preens, just a little bit. “My coaches said the same thing,” he says, his tone forced-casual.

Fortunately, his grandfather just takes a deep drag on his cigar, exhaling slowly. “I have not seen you skate like that since your debut year, _malysh_. It was... ferocious.” His brow knits together with concern.

“I _am_ ferocious,” Yuri tries to boast, but it’s hollow.

“It’s very different from your last few seasons,” his grandfather concedes.

“That’s because Katsudon did the choreography this time, with no help from Viktor for once,” Yuri says.

“That Katsuki boy,” Nikolai says with a thoughtful puff of his cigar. “He’s been a good coach for you this year.”

Yuri lets himself agree--this is the first year that Katsuki’s found his own footing as a coach, finally coming out from behind the shadow of Viktor’s instruction. “He’s brought out a part of me that Yakov and Viktor never could.” He’s always been more honest with his grandfather than anybody else.

Nikolai takes a deep, raspy breath. The cherry at the end of his cigar stutters as he inhales. “I see that.” He exhales a thick plume of smoke, and Yuri can almost smell the burnt sweet scent of it. It smells like home. “You always did admire him.”

Admire is a weak word for it; both Yuri and his grandfather know this. Yuri’s never bothered to take down the posters that adorn the walls of his childhood bedroom in the shabby Moscow apartment, but neither man bothers to mention this. “He’s a good coach. Better than Viktor.” It’s true, although Yuri doesn’t elaborate.

Thankfully, Nikolai doesn’t ask for details. He simply sucks on his cigar before launching into an update of all his own aches and pains. Yuri has to admit he’s thankful for the distraction from the neverending sinking feeling in his stomach and the acid in his chest that he can’t quite seem to shake. He catches up on the petty gossip from Moscow: neighbors who mysteriously drag heavy furniture across the floor at midnight. The old man upstairs who has taken in the stray dog who used to live in the courtyard.

Yuri listens and wraps his arms around himself. The mundane chatter makes Yuri homesick for the comfort of his grandfather’s apartment--he wishes he could curl up against his grandfather on the ancient lumpy couch and bury his face in his grandfather’s lap like a lazy cat while Nikolai runs his fingers through Yuri’s hair. Maybe it would soothe the restlessness he can’t seem to shake...

“Yurochka,” his grandfather says, and Yuri shakes his head, coming back into focus.

“Sorry, dedushka,” he says.

Nikolai’s mouth draws itself into a tight line of concern. “Yura? Are you taking care of yourself?” 

“Dedushka! Of course I am,” Yuri says, although everything in him wants to admit that he’s not. HIs grandpa cocks his head, suspicious, but Yuri immediately launches into a long complaint about Viktor’s general awfulness. By the time Nikolai hangs up, Yuri almost feels normal once more.

 

 

His next practice with Viktor is a disaster.

It shouldn’t be surprise. He’s been working himself up all week, spending most of his waking hours in that strange place between memory and fantasy as he anticipates Friday night.

And here he is, late Friday morning, fine-tuning his spins. As soon as Yuri arrived at the rink, Viktor had announced that he intended to fine-tune Yuri’s short program, a modification of the pas-de-deux from the ballet _La Peri,_ to more closely match his new theme: devotion.

Then, his coach had apologized in a weird, tense way that made Yuri uncomfortable for reasons he could not identify. “I’m sorry if we don’t have much time to work on the free skate between now and Rostelecom. But we’ll need the new choreography for _La Peri_ to be perfect.” Viktor trailed off and shrugged as if to say _you understand_.

Yuri nearly flinches. _Understand what?_ he wants to ask, but does not dare.

As Viktor walks him through the changes to the short program, Yuri absentmindedly wonders why _Viktor_ would be in charge of his choreography rather than Yuuri, who had done most of the development for the original theme. Had Viktor mentioned anything of their conversation at Veselka to his husband? It is unlike him: Viktor has no filter, saying absolutely every thought he has in his aloud before even bothering to finish thinking it first.

But he pushes the annoying thoughts to the back of his head, instead choosing to focus on the movements of his body as he pushes through the punishing choreography. It’s somehow harder to learn the changes to the routine than learning it in the first place, his muscle memory resisting the new steps.

Finally, after a grueling hour relearning his short program, Viktor asks Yuri to do a run-through of _Psyche et Eros_ in the final minutes before his first break.

Yuri, wrecked from the long run he’d taken this morning and from the grueling practice, doesn’t protest. He’s too tired to do anything but let the music from the tiny bluetooth speaker echo in his limbs the way it echoes through the silent rink, too tired to keep his movements in check. For four exhilarating minutes, Yuri forgets anyone is watching. The violins swell, followed by a crashing cymbal, and he throws himself into his jump combo like a man possessed.

And maybe, in some way, he _is_ possessed. There is something inside of him that is a part of him, yet apart from him, that has taken control of his body, that is beating against his skeleton, trying to break loose.  

Yuri gives himself to the music, but he might also be giving himself to a forbidden lover.

“Again.” Viktor’s voice is tense, the tendons in his neck showing.  

 _Fuck._ Yuri wonders how much Viktor could have seen. He might as well have been dry humping the ice with that performance--he can feel his chest starting to constrict with panic, and his breath echoes rapid and shallow in the empty rink.

But Viktor interrupts. “ _Psyche_ is coming along,” he admits. “I think you’re on track for a personal best at Rostelecom.”

“You think so?” Yuri asks, trying not to preen when Viktor answers, _I do indeed_. He only half-succeeds; the praise gets to him, despite how he tries to stifle it.

Viktor nods, tight and controlled. “There is so much Eros in your performance,” he murmurs into his hand. “I--never realized until Salt Lake.”

Yuri cocks his head, but Viktor is ice-cold, inscrutable as always.

“Hey, um. I know we don’t do this, but um, thank you,” Yuri stammers. “For um, helping me figure out my theme was changing. I... like the programs better this way.” They’re easier to skate like this, requiring more artistry, less artifice.

“You’re welcome,” Viktor says, but his voice has a cold edge to it. His blue eyes flash with something dark, but it is gone before Yuri can get a close look at it. A moment later, Viktor’s pasted on that fake smile he wears when he’s in front of a crowd. It’s been a long time since Yuri has seen him like that outside of dealing with the press, and it unnerves him.

Yuri doesn’t know what else to say. He just nods and awkwardly dabs the sweat from his skin with the hem of his shirt.

“Yuuri mentioned he might stay over at your place tonight,” Viktor says.

Yuri bent to slip on his skate guards. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m making mojitos,” he offers by way of explanation.

Viktor’s eyes get that cold, far-off look again. He clears his throat. “Just--” the word catches in his throat and he coughs, then tries again--”Yura, you know how my Yuuri can get when he drinks. Please--take care of him for me.”

Yuri nearly chokes. What the fuck--

He responds harshly, like always. “Oh my god, old man. We’re just going to get drunk and play video games. I promise your husband is going to be safe. Unless he tries to get into another dance-off with Potya...”

The last time that had happened, Yuuri had required stitches. But Viktor misses the joke. He regards Yuri seriously, knuckles tapping against his chin, inscrutable. “Promise me you’ll--”

“Fine, Viktor, fine,” Yuri huffs. “I’ll make sure your husband doesn’t get drunk and get into trouble. If he tries to dance with the cat, I will separate them before anyone starts bleeding, OK?”

Viktor nods. “I trust you, Yuri,” he says, slow and solemn.

The worst thing is that Yuri agrees with him. He knows better, knows he doesn’t deserve Viktor’s trust, because he’s already lost it. Yet he just wants the conversation to end, and this is the easiest way to end it.

“You’ll take care of him for me.” There’s a plea in Viktor’s voice. His ice-cold eyes shine with an almost-liquid glint.

So Yuri says the only thing he can say. He says _yes._ The word is bitter on his tongue, and he tastes it for hours afterward. Somehow that one syllable seems like the worst lie Yuri has ever told in his life even though it’s half the truth.

 

 

After practice, Yuri joins Georgi and Mila at the Veselka. They order the richest food on the menu, followed up by splitting one of the diner’s monstrous banana splits. Yuri hogs the ice cream, but his friends know better than to complain. It’s accepted as a universal truth at this point that you don’t get between Yuri and ice cream the same way you don’t fight a tiger with your bare hands: you don’t want to get hurt.

The sun has long set by the time Yuri is finishing dessert. Mila and Georgi are squabbling good-naturedly in the background, and he lets his mind wander: he needs to pick up mint and thyme at the market; Yuuri had said he’d bring limes, right? His attention is brought back to his rinkmates when Mila slams her glass down on the table decisively.

“Hey, you’re still coming to my place to do my makeup before we go out tonight, right?” He overhears Mila ask.

Yuri perks up, empty spoon poking out from his mouth, curious.

“Speaking of,” Georgi checks his pocketwatch, “shouldn’t we get going if we want to be at the club by eight?”

“Oh yeah,” Mila agrees. “Where’s the waitress?” She cranes her neck to wave her over.

The waitress is a pretty young girl, dark-haired with striking blue eyes. It takes longer than it should to get change because she’s exactly Mila’s type, and Georgi’s too. It’s funny to watch them both fight for her attention, especially when Yuri can tell she’s only indulging them for the tip.

Well, one has to get their amusement from something, Yuri thinks, slurping the last of the ice cream from his spoon.

“Hey Yuri, you wanna come with?” Mila asked as they divvied up the change.

“Where are we going and why I would want to go again?”

“Because you’re my friend?” Mila teases, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “And also, it’s goth night at Trash Bar...”

Yuri feels a pang. He _loves_ goth night, especially when Georgi is available to do everyone’s makeup and hair. But he declines--he’s got more important plans for the evening. “Ugh, baba, no way,” he grumbles, affectionate. “I already have plans.”

“Oooh, you got a date? Finally! I’m so proud of you! The kitten is becoming a cat!” Mila launched herself at Yuri, glomping onto him in an aggressive hug. She’s been trying to convince him to date for the last eight months, ever since Yuri and Otabek finally ended their on-and-off-again long-distance relationship. “Ooh, is it that guy you’ve been texting?”

“Oh, Yurio has a crush?” Georgi asks,suddenly interested. Of course he’d perked up at the word _crush_ \--Georgi practically has a radar for drama.

“Tch, it’s not like that,” Yuri protests, attempting to extricate himself from Mila’s grasp. It’s no use--Mila is as strong as she is slippery, so eventually he gives up and allows Mila to hug him. “Yuuri’s coming over. We’re gonna get drunk and play videogames until our eyes bleed.”

Mila finally lets go of him. “Huh. That’s... interesting.”

“Feh, there’s nothing interesting about it,” Yurio scoffs. “It’s the same thing we always do.” Well. Not quite, but Mila doesn’t need to know about his _actual_ plans for the evening, which admittedly requires playing with more dicks than joysticks.

She shrugs and tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Well, maybe you can talk to _Yuuri_ about your crush,” she says in a sing-song voice.

“What do you mean by that?” Yuri snaps,

“Easy, tiger,” Georgi says, shrugging on his jacket. “You guys are just close, you know?”

“It’s cute,” Mila adds. “

“Whatever,” Yuri says, struggling into his own coat. “I’ll see you guys Monday, yeah?”

He’s surprised to realize that his hands are still balled into fists inside his pocket when he’s just a block from his apartment. He’s tense as hell, all because of Mila and Georgi’s teasing. Sure, he and Yuuri are close--it rankles him that he’ll never be able to tell his friends just how close he and Yuuri really are.

But Yuri just uncurls his fist to close around the keys in his pocket. It’s worth it, he reminds himself, it _has_ to be. Because it’s all he’s likely to ever have, even if he can’t help wanting something more, something _honest_.

Yuri Plisetsky is anything but stupid, after all. He’s only gotten this far in the first place by taking calculated risks, and when it comes to Yuuri, the rewards outweigh everything else. He takes a deep breath and opens the door, busying himself in the kitchen. It won’t be long until Yuuri arrives, and Yuri promised him dinner and drinks along with everything else. He wouldn’t want to disappoint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for all your comments! they definitely inspired the muse and made this update possible. i promise i will respond to them all in time. keep the kind words coming! we are definitely listening.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is 4,000 words, 3,000 of which are porn. mind the new tags: switching, overstimulation, ass to mouth.
> 
> thanks to phayte, imagines, and kinoglowworm for the beta work! extra props to kino for all your help with Russian and Japanese pet names. y'all have contributed so much to the development of this work. the muse and i could never thank you enough.
> 
> golub=pigeon, also a Russian term for gay man, used here as a term of affection

When Yuri opens the door, Yuuri sidles up next to him in greeting, burying his nose in Yuri’s hair as he takes a deep breath. He inhales through his mouth as though trying to taste Yuri’s skin, all the while careful to maintain a careful distance between them, to keep their mouths and lower bodies from touching.

Yuri, suddenly bold, turns to him to press their lips together in a soft kiss. It makes Yuuri flush, and Yuri can’t help but chuckle against his mouth.

Because it’s funny, how shy Yuuri is when he’s not swept away by the invisible music, whether on the floor or on the ice. It’s one of the things Yuri has always loved about him, how he can he so utterly seductive, yet at the same time... almost innocent.

Yuuri had stared at him with a similar wonder, in a queen-sized bed in Salt Lake City, wide-eyed and full of wonder, just before pressing a kiss to the puffy pucker of Yuri’s hole and sucking out his own semen. The combination of cute and coquette has always been Yuri’s undoing; it’s always all been because of Yuuri--

“Mhmmm,” Yuuri sighs. “Can I kiss you again, Yusha?”

Yuri nods, but when Yuuri leans in, he takes a step back. “I like that,” he admits. “Your Russian is getting better.”

Yuuri quirked a confused eyebrow.

“You used to be so formal all the time,” Yuri said. “Yusha--it’s really familiar. I didn’t expect you to know that.”

“Oh,” Yuuri says, his eyebrows relaxing into a smile. “That’s because it’s not Russian,” he admitted. “It’s Japanese. Means _soldier."_

“Hmm,” Yuri hums. “You think I’m a soldier, _svinka_?”

“I know that word,” Yuuri says softly. “‘Little piggy’. You only call me that when we’re like this.”

This time, when he leans in to brush a kiss against the bow of Yuri’s lips, Yuri lets him. They linger lazily for several long minutes, the ingredients for the skewers forgotten on the countertop while their tongues mingle in each others’ mouths.

Finally, Yuuri breaks the seal between their lips with a slurp that should be obscene but just makes Yuri shiver. “So impatient, kitten,” he soothes, tucking a misbehaving clump of hair from Yuri’s forehead, and Yuri has to bite his lip to keep from saying something stupid.

He’s happy for the distraction that dinner provides. He and Yuuri chat intermittently about skating, about Yuuri’s newly-acquired Mario Party game and how bad Mila is at anything but Street Fighter, while Yuuri threads the meat and cubed veggies onto skewers and turns on the broiler. For his part, Yuri gathers supplies for mojitos, ice and rum and his cocktail shaker.

“Oh, you’re using the shaker I got you for Christmas,” Yuuri notices.

It’s a vintage thing, a sterling silver monstrosity with an intricately carved skull on it. The skull has two green gemstones for eyes. Yuri loves it.

“Yeah,” Yuri shrugs. “It’s cool.” It’s an understatement--Yuri loves the damn thing; he definitely drinks more cocktails than he did before receiving the gift. He muddles the mint leaves for a moment more, then adds the rum and lime syrup to the mix, shaking violently to mix the ingredients. Yuuri cracks a smile at the inelegant movements which are so at odds with the way Yuri is with him in the studio.

Yuuri plates the kebabs with the same elegant precision with which he does everything. It’s charming, the careful angles at which he balances the skewers on top of each other. His mindfulness of his every motion, Yuri realizes, is part of what makes his every movement so compelling. Yuri cannot look away from him even as he completes this mundane task.

Finally seated, Yuri leans across the table to kiss him as they toast. The mojito on Yuuri’s tongue is sweetly herbal, a crisp contrast to the rich burn of the scotch that night in Salt Lake. Yuuri holds Yuri’s chin in the palm of his hand, swift tongue licking the insides of Yuri’s mouth before he leans back into his seat to swallow a bite of kebab with a smirk.

The rest of the dinner is quiet, words replaced by teasing touches and occasional murmured sounds of appreciation as they eat. Yuri drinks his mojito too quickly--the sweet liquid goes down altogether too easily, but he pours himself another all the same.

The lingering glances across the table intensify. Yuri’s breathing quickens when Yuuri cocks his head and licks his lips, a perfect replica of the _Eros_ starting pose, and before he knows what he’s doing, Yuri’s out of his seat and capturing that tongue between his teeth in a soft bite that makes Yuuri growl.

They abandon their plates to Potya, leaving their half-eaten dinners on the table. The spicy meat probably isn’t good for her, but he can’t be bothered to do a damned thing about it now. Not when Yuuri Katsuki is straddling Yur with his thick heavy thighs, unbuttoning his own shirt while teasing motions of his hips grind into Yuri’s already erect dick. They haven’t made it down the hall to the bed--instead, they sprawl on Yuri’s overstuffed couch, just steps away from the kitchen table.

“God, it’s so... for you to be here like _this_ ,” Yuri murmurs. He knows he is not making sense, yet Yuuri seems to know exactly what he means. He draws Yuri closer, “I thought I’d never have you,” he confesses.

“Yusha, it’s--the same for me,” Yuuri admits, tracing his thumb over Yuri’s blond eyebrow.

“How?” Yuri asks.

Yuuri arranges them into sitting position; they simply hold each other closely, chest-to-chest. “I didn’t know this was something I ever could have...” He lets his words linger then tilts back, creating a space between himself and Yuri before reaching out to beckon with his arms, and Yuri lets the tension draw him in. Yuuri slides his hips against the front of Yuri’s pants with a whisper of pressure, nothing more, and Yuri groans before he can help himself, dick half hard.

He’s shameless so soon, totally uncaring at how aroused he is already. But Yuuri flushes when Yuri ruts against his leg, the heat of him burning through the layers of their clothing. There’s no way Yuri can hide his want, and if he’s being honest, he isn’t trying either.

Yuri pushes Yuuri’s overgrown bangs back off his forehead, then slips his glasses off. His fingertips linger against Yuuri’s cheekbone and jawline, the wisps of hair and the suggestion of stubble. Both of them are breathing through their open mouths, and the air between them is kissed with the sugared mint from the mojitos they’ve been sipping.

“Kiss me,” Yuri whispers, because Yuuri won’t stop _staring_ and that stare does something--it makes Yuri reckless.He closes his eyes, and Yuuri’s breath comes closer until it’s slipping directly into Yuri’s mouth, until his jaw hinges open to swallow the hunger that swells between them.

As their tongues slide together inside Yuri’s mouth, their hands slide up the seam of his jeans together, until Yuuri’s pulling open his fly to expose his cock, which has long since swelled from the confines of his dance belt. Yuuri confidently divests him of his clothing, somehow never interrupting the rhythm of his hand on Yuri’s dick.

“I’m going to fuck your pretty little hole until you come,” Yuuri says slowly, matching the cadence of his words to the lazy stroke of his hand on Yuri’s dick. “And then you’re going to finger me open until you’re hard enough to fuck me, and last long enough to satisfy me.”

Yuri’s cock jerks in his grip, as if to prove Yuuri’s point, and he might just have come at the words if Yuuri hadn’t squeezed his balls just in time. “See what I mean?” he asks, giving them a twist for good measure.

“Fuck, Yuuri,” Yuri groans, “you can’t just _say_ shit like that.”

“You like that idea, kitten?” Yuuri growls in his ear. “You want me to ride your pretty little cock?” He strokes Yuri’s average-sized dick, which twitches in his grip, betraying both how very badly Yuri wants that as well as how badly he wants to come.

Yuuri obliges him, sliding finger up his crack. circling deliberately. “You have lube, right kitten?”

With a groan, Yuri pulls himself away. “In the bedroom.” He moves to obey even before Yuuri speaks the order: “Bring it here.”

He walks to the bedroom and back in record time, lube in hand. He passes the small bottle to Yuuri, who cracks it open one handed to drizzle a generous amount on his fingertips. “Lie down,” he breathes, and Yuri arranges himself on the couch, knees up and a pillow beneath his ass.

Yuuri leans over him and reaches for his hole, not bothering to tease. He slips a finger into Yuri’s hole in one deft motion. “Look at how easily you open up for me,” Yuuri whispers with breathless wonder. He’s already adding a third finger, and Yuri’s hips buck up to swallow him up to the knuckle. “God, you’re already so loose... almost like you got up to something this morning...”

Yuri flushes and swallows, not bothering to deny it. It’s true, anyway--Yuri’d fucked himself on his own hand before even bothering to get out of bed for his run. He’d been so excited about tonight that he knew he’d have to get off to avoid embarrassing himself; he’s waited far too long for this to end in a premature ejaculation.

Yuuri notices the flush. He chuckles, and twists his fingers inside Yuri to just barely nudging his prostate, and Yuri keens as a white-hot arc of pleasure throbs up his spine. “Aaah!”

“Tell me, kitten,” Yuuri hums, thrusting his fingers deep and drawing another moan from Yuri, “how many fingers did you take?”

“Three,” Yuri whimpers, earning him a skeptical grimace. Yuuri thrusts his hand again, right into Yuri’s spot. He does not withdraw his fingers, instead, he taps and massages the swollen gland until Yuri relents, and tells him the truth. “F-Four.”

“Four?” Yuuri raises his eyebrows, and Yuri flushes harder but does not hide his face in the pillows as Yuuri fits his pinkie in along with the rest of his fingers. His hand is wider than Yuri’s own, and his rim stings with the stretch. Yuuri pauses, dusting a kiss between Yuri’s cheeks, just above where Yuri’s hole clings to his fingertips. “Too much, kitty?” His voice is tender and sweet, and it makes Yuri’s heart clench, along with his ass.

“No, no,” he gasps, willing himself to relax. Finally, Yuuri’s four fingers slide into him completely, and a long, deep breath escapes from between Yuri’s lips in a relieved hiss.

For a few minutes, Yuuri just watches him coming apart on his fingers, Yuri can feel “Look at you, Yuri,” he breathes. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking at you?”

The words hit Yuri in the chest--Yuuri’s been watching him? How long? Yuri’s burning to know. “Tell me.”

“God, since...”

A whole year. Not as long as Yuri’s been _wanting_ , but fuck, they could have had this _months_ ago. He leans his head back, mouth open, and Yuuri indulges him with a kiss. It is a desperate, hungry thing, tongues in each other’s mouths, and Yuri feels saliva dribble down his chin.

Yuuri breaks the kiss with a _smack_. “I’m gonna fuck you now, kitten,” Yuuri whispers, and Yuri whines with want while Yuuri teases the tip of his thick dick against his hole. The stretched flesh grips at him, trying to draw him in, but Yuuri isn’t penetrating him, not yet.

Being teased makes Yuri wail. He’s been waiting all week to feel Yuuri like this, and somehow now that it’s about to happen he is more impatient than ever. He’s about to beg when Yuuri finally pushes in, all the way until his chest is pressed against Yuri’s own, who can feel Yuuri’s thick, solid body bearing down on him.

He lingers for a few moments, motionless, waiting for Yuri to open up around him. Even though his ass is still burning, Yuri bucks his hips, impatient, until Yuuri starts to slide his cock out slowly. Yuri’s rim tugs at him as he withdraws, and he shivers when Yuuri traces a finger around where the muscle swallows his cock.

Yuri clenches, thrilling when Yuuri makes a loud sound, then angles his hips downward. The new angle makes his dick thrust against Yuri’s prostate, and when Yuri’s back arches and his cock leaks, he pushes into Yuri harder.

There’s no more shyness--Yuuri takes him roughly, grinding down each time he bottoms out, which presses his dick against Yuri’s prostate without mercy. He’s not trying to be gentle, and Yuri relaxes, letting himself go boneless, letting the orgasm build in his balls as Yuuri fucks him.

It takes just one finger trailing up the underside of his cock to send him over the edge. Yuri’s cock spasms against his stomach as he gasps, a thick stream of semen leaking from the tip as his cock bounces between his legs. Through it all, Yuuri watches.

Yuuri doesn’t let him go. Instead, he continues thrusting in at a punishing pace as he wraps his palm around Yuri’s cock, not letting him go soft. Yuri gasps, trying to catch his breath as his dick throbs. He’s not quite hard, but the pressure of Yuuri’s cock against his prostate feels _so good_ and _so much_ \--Yuri whines, hips bucking desperately, not sure if he’s bucking into Yuuri’s touch or away from it.

“Don’t go soft,” Yuuri orders, grinding his hips against the globes of Yuri’s ass as he squeezes his fingers around Yuri’s cock, trapping the blood in his dick. Yuri groans, cock lurching in Yuuri’s hand, still defiantly hard.

One of Yuuri’s hands gropes in the cushions for the lube. Reaching for one of Yuri’s hands, Yuuri spreads the lube over his fingers, then guides Yuri’s hand to his own ass. Gripping Yuri by the wrist, he guides Yuri’s fingertip inside. Yuri can’t help but gasp to feel the warmth of Yuuri’s sphincter sucking at his fingertip; it’s another point of sensation for his already overstimulated body.

Yuuri doesn’t stop fucking him as Yuri spreads him open, one finger at a time; instead, he times his thrusts with the movement of Yuri’s fingers inside of him. His cock jerks in Yuri’s hole as his lover pushes his fingertips rhythmically against his rim. When Yuuri decides he’s open enough, he grabs Yuri’s cock at the base, pulling out of Yuri’s body and settling himself on Yuri’s cock with one fluid motion.

He rests his weight on his knees, drawing himself up and down on Yuri’s cock while Yuri sprawls boneless on the cushions. He closes his eyes and rubs his nipples between his fingertips, spine arching sinuously as he fucks himself on Yuri’s dick. Yuri inhales--the motions of Yuuri’s hips look so familiar, he’s sure that he’s seen Yuuri like this before, on the ice, on the dancefloor, but never like this, not with Yuri’s dick between the full globes of his ass, _inside_ the man Yuri’s spent so many years wanting.

Yuri bucks his hips, and is surprised when Yuuri slaps him. “Stay _still_ ,” he orders, sliding his ass against Yuri’s sweaty lap. Yuuri’s ass feels so hot and smooth against the sparse hairs on Yuri’s thighs, and Yuri can’t help but reach out a hand to grasp at the thick muscle of Yuuri’s glutes and use the leverage to fuck into him harder, despite the earlier warning.

Yuuri makes a disapproving cluck of his tongue. “So _impatient_ ,” he murmurs, his cock glistening with lube and their own fluids, slapping against his own stomach as he rolls his hips up and down Yuri’s cock. He moves slowly, without urgency, running his hands across his torso, occasionally flicking his nipples between his fingers, which makes his cock leak with every pinch. Yuri watches, captivated, captive to Yuuri’s pleasure as he touches himself.

Yuri reaches up, grasping the brown bud with his nails, digging the sharp edges in. Yuuri whines, and fucks himself faster--Yuri feels his own balls twinge. He’s seen Yuuri’s Eros, he’s felt it even--but not like this. Yuuri can fuck like no lover Yuri has ever had--decisive, proud; he can take a cock like nothing Yuri’s ever seen, except in porn. Not even in his own imagination had he ever thought that Yuuri Katsuki could be capable of this, and Yuri has had years to imagine...

He can barely believe it’s real as he watches Yuuri’s thick eyelashes flutter against his cheekbones while he settles himself in Yuri’s lap, cock buried to the root in Yuuri’s ass. He moans, his tongue peeking out from between his lips, a droplet of drool collecting at the corner of his mouth.

Yuuri has given himself over to his own pleasure like nothing Yuri’s ever seen. Struck dumb by the display, Yuri can only sit back and watch as Yuuri fucks himself with ever-greater intensity on Yuri’s dick. He feels the motions less than he sees them mirrored in Yuuri’s expressions, less than he hears them in Yuuri’s whimpers and gasps. He mouths at the juncture of Yuuri’s collarbone, licks the dip of muscle between Yuuri’s pectorals, and _feels_. More than his cock, his chest aches, and it’s not because Yuri has been gasping for breath.

The feeling constricts his throat and prickles at his nose, and Yuri pinches Yuuri’s nipples harder in an effort to distract himself from the tension in his chest, which threatens to overtake the throb in his cock and the ache in his ass. The flesh of Yuuri’s nipples puff and purple between his fingertips; Yuuri seems to thrive on the touches, the rougher the better--the saliva at the corner of his mouth thickens and drips down his chin, and Yuri leans in to lick it clean, one of his hands trailing from Yuuri’s nipples to the thatch of hair between his legs and below that, his proud hard cock--

When Yuuri moans, it’s a low keening thing that makes his whole body clench around Yuri’s inside of him. Suddenly, Yuri’s second orgasm is not far off--his balls seize ominously, and he can feel the precum leak into Yuuri’s asshole, which flutters around the base of Yuri’s cock as he spurts uncontrollably inside. The tension in his throat finally releases, and Yuri spews sweet nonsense words like _good_ and _fuck_ and _love_ , the last one torn from him in an unintelligible screech as he fucks the last of his need into Yuuri’s hole.

He grabs Yuuri’s dick with a tight grasp, pumping up and down furiously, not bothering to build up to it. Yuri won’t last that long--he can already feel the inevitable twinge in his balls, the steady stream of precum leaking from his cockhead. It won’t be long now.

With a yell, he pushes his hips up to meet Yuuri on a downward thrust, and comes. Yuuri rides him through the spasms, until Yuri is babbling _no more, no more_. He nearly collapses when Yuuri lifts off of him, cock still proudly erect below the well-manicured tuft of black hair between his legs. His balls look heavy and full of semen, and Yuri is at once sated and ashamed that he hasn’t managed to make Yuuri come, even after Yuuri has fucked two orgasms out of him.

He’s heard all the jokes about Yuuri’s stamina, but he never thought it would have extended to this--Yuuri’s cock is still proud and hard between his legs, leaking but not overflowing, while a stripe of Yuri’s semen trickles from his hole. It’s the single hottest thing that Yuri’s seen in all of his nineteen years, and if he hadn’t just come twice in the last hour his dick would have gotten hard once more at the sight.

Yuuri lay back on the bed, lazily stroking himself, seeming as though he is in no rush to come despite the fact that he must have been aching with it. Yuri feels a pang of admiration for the man’s stamina, and reaches down to Yuuri’s rim, still leaking onto his cheeks and thighs. With two fingers, he gently pushes back into Yuuri’s hole, searching for the spongy flesh of his prostate, spreading his fingers wide when Yuuri shudders with approval.

His hole is slick and warm, and Yuri moans. He’s never been vocal when fingering a partner before, but Yuuri is so hot like this, writhing on his hand. He is struck by the sudden need to suck Yuuri dry, to make him come better than ever, to make him feel so good he’ll come back. He doesn’t know how often or how many times he’ll be allowed to have this, and he wants everything, all at once. Yuri bends down, leaning over Yuuri’s still-wet cock, and opens his mouth.

He’s startled by Yuuri’s hands in his hair, gently pulling him off. Yuri looks up with a question in his green eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Yuuri says, stroking his thumb over Yuri’s brow. Yuri knows what he means--Yuuri has been inside him, it’s dirty, he shouldn’t.

“But I want it,” Yuri says, voice crackling with his hunger. “Let me have it.”

Yuuri nods, and the younger man swallows him whole as he scissors his fingers wide, feeling the come drip out of his hole. Yuri blows him luxuriously, long slow sucks interspersed with lots of licking, while his fingers play with Yuuri’s ass. He takes a deep breath--Yuuri smells filthy here, of musk and sex and semen.

Finally, Yuuri’s fingers tighten in his hair, pushing Yuri’s mouth onto the head of his dick. Yuri chokes, the tears leaking out of his eyes, but Yuuri just fucks his mouth harder while Yuri rams his knuckles against the red stretched skin of Yuuri’s rim. Moments later, Yuuri shudders, his come filling Yuri’s open mouth. His grip on Yuri’s hair relaxes as his muscles loosen with his orgasm, and Yuri sputters, breathing deep.

Through half lidded eyes, Yuuri watches him gasp for breath. “So good. You made me feel so _good_ , Yusha,” Yuuri says, his voice little more than a half-choked whisper.

Yuri swipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Jealousy flares up in him, and he knows he should bite his tongue but he cannot help himself before he asks, “Better than Viktor?”

Yuuri’s brown eyes sag at the corners. He reaches out to push Yuri’s messy hair away from his eyes, his own expression serious and a little sad. “It’s not a competition, _golub_ ,” he says, drawing Yuri closer until they’re spooned together on the couch.  

The pet name soothes the fire in Yuri’s chest--that, and the gentle, worshipful touches that Yuuri trails up and down his sides. They’re not sexual, not quite, though the intimacy is clear. “You feel nothing like him, you know,” Yuuri says quietly.

“I _hope_ not,” Yuri snort, breaking the moment the only way he knows how: with sarcasm..

They laugh together, although it’s not funny. Yuri supposes it’s one of those things where you’d cry if you didn’t. But for now, he and Yuuri laugh until their bellies ache, holding on to one another until they’re hoarse and have to catch their breath.

It doesn’t matter if Yuuri and this moment are something that he’s stolen. It’s still the most precious thing Yuri has, and he swears in silent promise to himself that he’ll do whatever it takes to keep his lover close, even if it means he has to lie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... just a little smut before the real pain begins....
> 
> as always, the muse and i love all your comments and kudos. they keep the chapters coming!


	6. Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> six weeks since the last update, hey? hope this is worth the wait.
> 
> thanks so much for all your comments and questions! july/august/september are the busiest months at work, and your support definitely helped motivate me to push through a chapter that didn't want to be written. my inbox is a mess and i promise i will respond to every last one of you. in the meantime, know that the muse and i love you all! 
> 
> mad love to boxwineconfessions, blownwish, imagines, and kinoglowworm for letting me scream at you to develop this chapter. it truly takes a village to raise a monster. 
> 
> starikashka: old man

Yuuri wakes him early the next morning, the steaming cup of coffee in his hands the only apology he offers for waking Yuri up before eight on a Saturday. Because Yuri is a weak man, he accepts the caffeinated beverage and the unspoken apology with a grateful kiss brushed onto the space between Yuuri’s black eyebrows. He’s made tea for himself, and Yuri sniffs his mug suspiciously, remembering the last time he’d drunk a cup of coffee at Yuuri and Viktor’s house--it had been bitter, too strong, overbrewed. But this cup smells normal, so he takes a sip.

Even without sugar or milk, the coffee is sweet, chocolatey, almost perfect. Before he can stop himself, Yuri lets out a pleased little moan. He does not miss Yuuri’s smirk of satisfaction.

“Christ, Katsudon,” Yuri asks, “when did you learn to do this?”

Yuuri shrugs, the little smile still teasing at his lips. “I’ve been practicing.”

Yuri doesn’t ask for details: he knows that Yuuri doesn’t drink coffee himself, that he must have been making coffee for _Viktor._ Another jolt of irrational jealousy sparks in his chest; silently, he takes another sip, flinging his free arm around Yuuri’s shoulders and drawing the other man close. He busses a soft kiss onto Yuuri’s cheek, smiling a bit when he sees Yuuri blush. Despite the way he’d taken control of Yuri’s and his own desires last night, as soon as he puts on his clothes, Yuuri reverts to his shy, awkward self; there’s no hint of the Eros that had commanded them both in his softly curling hair or the soft, oversized clothing he prefers.

He turns his head, taking a sip of his green tea, which makes Yuri’s nose bump against his ear and the shock of black hair he’s tucked behind it. He’s showered, and smells like Yuri’s floral soap. The delicate scent is disconcerting against the spice of his skin, the white florals gone stale like like a bouquet of dying blooms. Funeral flowers.

Yuri wrinkles his nose. “You smell weird,” Yuri says against the pale, warm-toned skin of Yuuri’s neck..

“Oh?” Yuuri’s eyes quirk with dangerous humor, the kind that makes Yuri’s spine spark. “I don’t smell like you?”

Yuri shakes his head. On him, the flowers smell fresh and clean, not stale and strange. “I should buy you soap of your own.” Something warm and a little woody, something to complement rather than clash with Yuuri’s cinnamon-and-cardamon chemistry.

Yuuri shakes his head, and Yuri’s heart catches. He feels like maybe he’s said something _wrong--_ that maybe he’s not supposed to think about the future, not supposed to make promises for a _next time_ that might never happen.

“Oh, kitten, you don’t have to do that.”

“But I want to.” He _wants_ to make his apartment feel like home for Yuuri, even if he never lives here. Even if every night they spent together is something stolen.

Yuuri gives him a small, sad smile.

Yuri places his half-finished coffee on the bedside table. Gently, he removes Yuri’s tea from between his fingers to set it beside his own mug, then gently rolls him over for a full-body kiss.

“Yusha, we--we can’t,” Yuuri says. He’s panting beneath Yuri, his cock hard.

Yuri rolls his hips, gasping softly as their erections collide. “But I _want_ you so bad,” he whimpers.

Yuuri reaches up to capture his face in his hands, and looks at Yuri sadly. “I--I have to go home soon.”

“You’re going home to fuck him.” There’s venom in Yuri’s voice. Yuuri doesn’t deny it.

Yuri rolls off of him to curl into himself in the sheets. He’s sulking; he knows it’s childish--Yuuri had promised him Friday night, and that’s exactly what Yuri got. It’s stupid to want more, but goddamn it, Yuri wants all the nights of the week and all the days too.

Yuuri reaches out a tentative hand, stroking the diagonal line of Yuri’s deltoids. “He’s my husband, Yura.” Yuuri’s voice is soft but firm, matching the pressure of the hand stroking his shoulder. “You knew I had to go home this morning.”

Yuri wants to tell him that he doesn’t _have_ to go, that _here_ can be home from now on, but he swallows the words. They taste bitter; the unspoken syllables churn in his stomach uneasily. “Whatever.” He won’t ask again. He doesn’t want to hear the answer.

With a sigh, Yuuri aligns his body against Yuri’s naked back. They lie there in silence, Yuri simply breathing and letting himself be held until the alarm on Yuuri’s phone goes off, and Yuuri peels himself away from Yuri’s body slowly. It aches, like removing a band-aid that doesn’t want to come undone.  

But Yuri doesn’t say anything. He just buries himself in the sheets as he watches Yuri collect his clothing and pack his bag, not moving until he has to escort Yuuri to the door. The kiss Yuuri gives him is chaste, tinged with melancholy. Yuri kisses back with something like desperation, but he’s the one to break the kiss first. He has to be.

He spends a long time staring at the door after it slams shut behind Yuuri without knowing why. Maybe he’s waiting for Yuuri to turn around, to walk back inside, and tell him he’s decided to stay.

But the door stays shut. Eventually, Yuri turns on the TV and loads a game on his Playstation 4, ignoring the pinging of his phone for the rest of the day. He doesn’t trust himself to answer. There’s only one person he want to talk to, anyway, and he’s busy fucking his husband to bother with Yuri. Instead of letting himself dwell, Yuri channels his frustration into shooting aliens before they get a chance to shoot him instead. 

When he crawls to bed that night, eyes blurry from exhaustion and squinting at the TV screen all day long, the sheets still smell like Yuuri and sex. Yuri pulls the blankets over his head, and breathes deeply until everything fades to black. He doesn’t dream.

 

 

Yuri gets better at splitting himself in two.

It starts on Sunday during brunch, when Mila asks how his evening with Yuuri went. Yuri simply takes a sip of his mimosa and makes a joke about serving the piggy pork for dinner. Mila calls him a cannibal Katsudon and they both cackle.

Half of Yuri laughs, the other half curls protectively around the memory of Yuuri in his bed, tucked to his chest. Mila doesn’t notice.

He Skypes Otabek that afternoon, just like they do every other Sunday. Otabek talks about the trip he has planned next spring with his girlfriend--the kind of motorcycle backpacking trip that gives Yuri hives. Yuri’s high maintenance, and he knows it; the mere thought of weeks without a reliable source of electricity and a real bed or shower makes his skin crawl.

Still, Otabek never asked _him_ to go on that kind of trip, and Yuri can’t help the spark of jealousy that burns in his chest. “You never took _me_ on a long motorcycle trip.”

Otabek rolls his eyes. “Yura, I _tried._ You made me stop at a motel the very first night after you got bitten by a mosquito.”

“Oh.” Yuri remembers that. They hadn’t even set up camp before Yuri had made them hike back to the bike so they could ride back to civilization less than an hour after they’d hit the trail. “Well, that bite _itched_.”

Onscreen, Otabek’s shoulders shake with his weird quiet chuckle. Yuri glares. “Just admit it, princess. You’re far too delicate for motorcycle backpacking.”

Well, Yuri can’t deny that. He is, after all, wearing an expensive French face mask and filing his nails as he speaks. “Fine,” he sighs. “You’re right. I admit it--I’m too high-maintenance for long motorcycle trips.” He shakes his head, and his carefully-styled hair ripples with the movement, only emphasizing the truth of his words.

“I loved that about you,” Otabek says, matter-of-fact. It makes something in Yuri ache. It’s not like he’s in love with Otabek--if Yuri’s being honest, he can admit he never really _was._ Even during the best of their relationship, Otabek was just a placeholder for the man who’s made Yuri ache since he was just a kid. They both know this, and Yuri wants to apologize, to _explain_ , to tell Otabek the truth--that it’s OK, that he’s sorry but he got his man in the end. He still loves Otabek--will probably always love Otabek, a little bit, for teaching him how to rebel for real. But if you never get over your first love, and he thinks Otabek might have been happy for him, if things were different. 

Instead he shakes his head and teases, changing the subject before he tells Otabek something too close to the truth.

And when Yuri shows up to the rink for his next practice with Viktor, he sheds the skin that knows the weight and the shape of Yuuri’s hands like a stocking, peeling it away from his body slowly so as not to rip the delicate fabric. He folds the part of him that has held Yuuri close into ever-smaller squares with his street clothes, securing them into his locker with a click. 

Yuri rests his forehead against the cool metal for a moment to ground himself, then turns and leaves the locker room through the door that exits rinkside. _You can do this, Yurotchka._ He holds onto the thought until he believes it.

 

 

Viktor is already at the boards, looking slightly worse for the wear as he clutches a cup of coffee that he swallows in greedy sips. His hair is mussed, there are bags under his eyes--it’s clear he hasn’t slept. Yuri doesn’t want to know why.

So he steels himself, muscles going taut as he puts his phone and his water bottles on the bench. Viktor nods to him in greeting--it’s so effusive, so unlike Viktor’s usual overly-enthusiastic self.

“Bah,” Yuri spits. “You look old and terrible, _starikashka_ .” Perhaps it’s a bit crueler than necessary, but Yuri can’t let himself be kind, not yet. It’s not Viktor’s fault that Yuri had fallen in love with his husband, but he _is_ the reason Yuuri could not stay on Saturday. Yuri hates him a little for that.

Viktor grimaces, but he does not disagree. He simply puts his mug down on the bench with a clatter. He sighs, and from this close, Yuri can smell the day-old vodka on his breath and coming out of his pores, like the man had been drinking all night. But all he says is “I couldn’t sleep”, in the kind of small voice that’s too small to break.

It takes Yuri a moment to remember to sneer. “Yeah, it’s obvious.”

Viktor’s silence is uncomfortable. Normally he’d make some kind of melodramatic joke, feigning a hurt so exaggerated it could not possibly have been real. Viktor was like that--dramatic. _Extra_.

It’s clear that something is on Viktor’s mind: he doesn’t say anything when Yuri skips a step in his opening choreography, putting him a half-beat behind the music. He didn’t bother to correct his timing, instead choosing to wait for Viktor to say something, but the man barely even noticed when Yuri two-footed his quad salchow, and downgraded one of the jumps in his final combo to a double.

He’s no better for the rest of the session, barely offering any criticism at all. If Yuri was a better man, he’d ask what’s wrong. But he already knows.

Just as Yuri is slipping on his blade guards and unlacing his skates, getting ready to head back into the locker room and his afternoon gym session with his personal trainer, Viktor finally speaks.

“You know, Yuuri and I are making Korean on Friday. You should join us.” Viktor is avoiding Yuri’s eyes,  looking over his shoulder instead. “You know, Yuuri would appreciate the help.” He snorted sadly. “You know how _useless_ I am at cooking.”

His jaw is set strangely, his eyes still unfocused. Something sinks in Yuri’s stomach. He swallows. “Sorry, old man,” Yuri says. “I--already have plans.”

It’s a lie, but Viktor doesn’t have to know that.

“Oh?” Viktor asks. It’s clear he’s fishing for more information, but Yuri stays silent. “Maybe next week, then.”

“Maybe,” Yuri says, intentionally vague. He knows if he starts lying now, he’ll never stop. Perhaps every man in his situation starts lying eventually, but he’ll put it off until these little half-truths are no longer enough to save him.

Viktor just shakes his head, his silver hair curling and unkempt, half-obscuring the ice-blue ring of his pupils. He mumbles something indistinct about Yuri’s free edge on his quad loop before turning to study the ice as though searching for meaning in the scratches Yuri’s skates have scrawled into the ice. 

Yuri watches for a moment before leaving the rink. Viktor’s uncharacteristic silence makes Yuri’s heart race harder then the skating. It’s a long time before his pulse slows and his blood stops pounding in his chest and he can hear something more than the sound of his own adrenaline in his ears once again.

 

 

It’s late. By any sane person’s standards, Yuri should have been asleep an hour ago. Instead, he’s waiting in line for the bathroom at the club, playing with his phone and anxiously drinking his fourth vodka tonic even though he has to pee.

But he had to get out of his apartment, away from his unmade bed and unkempt couch, away from the reminders of all the ways Yuuri was here and now is not. So he’d called Georgi and Mila, knowing they would know somewhere he could go and just drink and dance with strangers the way he wanted to dance with Yuuri--something wilder, more wanton than ballet.

Georgi knew someone who knew someone who could get them tickets to the sold-out show at the Moloko--some terrible Finnish darkwave band that wore glittery eyeliner and Viking armor to perform--and Yuri immediately took him up on the offer. Somehow, despite his moping--or maybe because of it--Georgi is strangely popular in the St Petersburg scene. Some drunk girl said it had something to do with his witch powers, and though Yuri knows Georgi’s witchery was crap, it _does_ get him VIP access to numerous shows so he doesn’t complain too much. And hell, the show was good just for the camp value, Yuri has to admit.

That’s how he has ended up in line, waiting for the bathroom and avoiding making eye contact with anyone while trying to decide whether his virtual cats need a beach umbrella or a fishbowl more when Yuuri texts him. _Viktor showed me the new choreo. You’re really beautiful to watch, you know._

Yuri almost texts back _I’d look even prettier dancing on your dick_ but manages to stop himself. He’s drunk, but not stupid, so he types _You liked watching me skate the new program?_ instead.

 _I loved it._ Yuri shivers. It’s not quite a declaration of love, but it’s close enough. _I have some suggestions though._ _Can we meet in the office tomorrow? I want to review the videos with you._

Yuri immediately types back, _sure. Usual  time?_ Fuck, he can’t even pretend to have chill, already drawn tight with anticipation.

 _Elena has a dentist appointment and I have a free hour before your session...._ Yuuri types, then deletes, then types and deletes once more. Finally, the next message comes through. _Do you think you can make it at nine instead?_

Yuri tries not to think about what Yuuri’s unsent messages might have said. _That’s fine. I’ll see you then._

Yuuri must have seen his new program for _La Perie,_ the new choreography that places an emphasis on the devotion the lovers have for each other rather than their mutual betrayal. He wonders if Yuuri can see himself in all the negative spaces of Yuri’s dance, if he feels the same thing watching Yuri dance that Yuri feels when he performs his program, that deep, dangerous thing that Yuri cannot let himself call by name.

To give something a name is to have command power over it. To have power over it would be to end it, and Yuri wants to be powerless a little longer. If that makes him a selfish man, well, that’s just what Yuri’s become. He won’t pretend to be better than he is.

The line for the bathroom lurches forward, and someone grabs Yuri by the waist. When he jabs back an elbow in retaliation, someone else grips him by the wrist. Great. He’d been hoping to avoid this bullshit tonight...

“Does your mom know you touch people without asking?” Yuri growled, pocketing his phone and pivoting on his feet to face the assholes who are groping him. He stops short when he recognizes the familiar red undercut and pompadour of the offenders. “Mila? Georgi? What the fuck?”

“C’mon, Yuri, let us cut in line. We gotta pee.” Mila crossed her legs and wriggled.

“You only have to pee because you insist on drinking beer instead of vodka like a real Russian,” Yuri griped, but he moved aside to let his friends cut ahead despite the protestations of the line behind him.

“You’re drinking gin,” Mila said.

“Gin is made of vodka,” Yuri says smugly.

Mila looks to Georgi for backup, who shrugs. “What? It’s true.”

“You’re kind of a terrible friend, Giya,” Mila grumbles. “You’re lucky your witch powers are so good. Otherwise this would be a very one-sided friendship.”

The three friends burst out laughing. Yuri takes the last sip of his drink in an effort to calm the hiccups he has from laughter when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

He doesn’t bother to check it until he’s in the stall. It’s a selfie of Yuuri, sitting in the livingroom, a blurry frame from Yuri’s _La Perie_ frozen on the laptop screen in the background. He’s wearing a shirt that’s too loose and too short, exposing his collarbones and the soft bulge of his lower stomach, but it’s his expression that nearly makes Yuri fumble the phone into the toilet bowl--Yuuri’s eyes are warm and brown and eager, full of genuine excitement.

He’s not sultry, or flirting in the selfie, yet Yuri feels a pang of wanting. Not to fuck him, but to lie beside him as they review his choreography, to wake up too goddamn early on a weekend for the pleasure of drinking coffee in bed or making an elaborate breakfast. All the domestic trappings of a relationship that Yuri’s never had before, never really wanted--now he wants it so bad his heart wants to burst as badly as his bladder after four vodka tonics.

Yuri pockets the phone, then pisses, and lets Mila buy him another round before he leaves. While waiting for his Uber, he opens the picture Yuuri sent him. No matter how long Yuri looks at it, Yuuri does not feel any closer. Now that he’s had the real thing, he can’t be satisfied with anything less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your kudos and comments keep the muse and i inspired! thanks so much for helping us finish this chapter with your kind words and support. <3


	7. Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, it took a damned long time, but the muse finally stopped fucking around and decided to let me finally finish this chapter. i don't know why the muse made me rewrite it so many times. hope the extra long chapter and the smut are worth the wait.
> 
> thanks so much to all the usual suspects for enabling and inspiring me: mad props to [kinoglowworm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/KinoGlowWorm/pseuds/KinoGlowWorm), [imagines](http://archiveofourown.org/users/imagines/pseuds/imagines), and [boxwineconfession](http://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions) for all their help with developing this fic. y'all are invaluable for the way you've made this fic so much MORE than it would be otherwise. and much love to my salties [francowitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Francowitch/pseuds/Francowitch), [phayte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phayte/pseuds/Phayte), & [theinsanefox](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheInsaneFox/pseuds/TheInsaneFox) for all editing and enabling.

The curious feeling of being split in two persists even as Yuri walks into the studio. The offices are in the third floor attic, atop a narrow, dark stairwell, low-ceilinged with deep eaves, the kind of room that’s drafty in the winter and stifling in the summer. Viktor’s office is rarely used, especially since the coaches had renovated the first floor last year, building couple of administrative offices off of the lobby for their secretaries and instructors.

However, Yuuri has remained attached to his office, and can often be found in his upstairs room, having snuck away for a few minutes of quiet during the day. He prefers to eat lunch at his desk unless he’s meeting Viktor or his students at the Veselka, retreating to the tranquility of his office before his afternoon sessions. Though he’s lived the past several years as a public figure, it has done nothing to change the fact that Yuuri Katsuki is an intensely private man, and his office is his private place.

Yuri loves Yuuri’s office. It’s so _him_ \--dark yet welcoming, decorated with ferns and vines of various colors and textures, leafy and low-lying things draped everywhere, so different from the apartment he shares with Viktor, which is all sleek modern lines and empty spaces. It’s probably the one place that Yuuri has that’s truly his own. He shares everything else in his life with Viktor--except for the thing he shares with Yuri.

Yuri raises his fist, a moment away from knocking on the door of Yuuri’s office. He feels silly knocking on the door. He knows Yuuri never locks his office when he’s at the studio; as much as he may enjoy his solitude, his students are always welcome. The safe and all the important documents are kept in the administrative office downstairs, anyway.

But before Yuri can knock, the door opens. A softly grinning Yuuri opens the door, his expression simultaneously hopeful and shy. It makes Yuri want to kiss the innocence off his face and unlock the Eros he knows lies beneath. He almost does, but manages to catch himself before he can do anything that would belie what he and Yuuri are to each other now, before he’s had a chance to name it for himself.

Yuri catches himself staring at the indent of Yuuri’s cupid’s bow. He bites himself on the mouth in an attempt to avoid tracing the shadow under Yuuri’s nose with his tongue; he can feel Yuuri’s gaze drawn to the place where Yuri’s sharp canines dig into his thin lower lip.

After an awkward moment, Yuuri ushers him into the room, closing the door firmly behind him. The soft _snick_ of the lock being flipped into place barely registers before Yuuri has him backed against the bookcase, his tongue slipping between the seam of Yuri’s lips to lick into his mouth.

The kiss is unexpected, but Yuri relaxes into it, letting Yuuri press him into the bookcase. He can feel the edges of the shelves behind his shoulders, buttocks, and knees; the uneven spines of the books poke into every part of him in between. It’s far from comfortable, but Yuuri’s kiss is all Yuri can feel; he’s been craving it for days...

“I couldn’t wait to kiss you,,” Yuuri admits.

“Yeah?” Yuri swallows. His voice feels tight and small in his throat.

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Viktor made me watch those videos of your new choreography...”

His casual mention of his husband makes the hair on Yuri’s arms prickle. But before Yuri can damn Viktor to hell, Yuuri continues his thought.... “It made me want you so bad.”

The noise Yuri makes at that is supposed to be Yuuri’s name but it comes out as an animal sound, low and feral. “ _Yuuri--”_

“Shhh. I know.” Yuuri pushes Yuri’s blond bangs off his forehead. “Kitten, do you want me to tell you what I saw?”

Yuri nods, and lets Yuuri lead him to the computer. Onscreen is an image of Yuri himself, frozen mid-jump, his hair flying wildly around his face and an expression approaching desperation on his face. He’s never seen himself so exposed.

Yuuri clicks, and the Yuri in the video comes to life. The landing is sloppy, somehow as desperate as the expression on his face. There’s a wobble in his weight-bearing leg; while technically imperfect, the wobble belies a vulnerability to which Yuri does not often admit. It’s the kind of imperfection that adds to the lyrical interpretation of the program--it expresses Peri’s realization that Iskander has stolen back the lotus of immortality, her failure as its guardian. It’s the moment that Peri realizes she is no longer anything more than mortal--unless she manages to recapture the lotus of immortality.

“Watch closely.” Yuuri’s words puff the yellow strands of Yuri’s hair against the shell of his ear. With his other hand, he plays back the sequence,

Yuri does. It’s obvious that the choreography is new--it’s sloppy, full of hesitation and mistimed footwork. Yet there’s something raw and poetic about it, all the more beautiful for its flaws.

Though his skating is technically beautiful, Yuri has always struggled with presentation. Telling a story on the ice, becoming a character--it’s never come easily to him. That’s where Yuuri excels. And Yuri can see the effects of Yuuri’s tutelage in his routine: for once, he’s making music with his movements the way that Yuuri always has.

Perhaps the true genius of Yuuri’s skating has always been this--his ability to make his mistakes count. Yuuri had podiumed at international competitions with imperfect programs so many times, not because he was an inferior skater, but because of his ability to make the flaws in his choreography feel like a _part_ of the choreography. It reminded him of the tiger figurine Yuuri brought back from Japan as a gift for Yuri last year; the delicate porcelain had broken on the flight back to Russia. Instead of throwing away the broken thing, Yuuri had had the cracks mended with gold. It’s still one of the most beautiful things Yuri owns. “It’s--it’s beautiful like this, isn’t it?”

Yuuri’s got his index finger against his lips, in a habit he must have picked up from Viktor. “It is.” His eyes narrow, and he taps his face with his finger murmurs suggestions. “Replace the jump with a spin.” Yuuri leans over Yuri’s back to reach for the mouse. “And hold the spin until this note...” He backtracks the video until the second movement of the song ends, when the strings slow to a standstill just before the percussion kicks in.. “You want the emotion to linger. A jump lasts only a fraction of a second... but a spin can last for a measure or more....” His lips are a fraction of a centimeter away from Yuri’s ear. Yuri shivers and tries to make sense of the words Yuuri’s whispering.

“So, a layback spin? Not a combo?”

Yuuri skipped the video back several seconds, then closed his eyes and shook his head to the music. “No, I think just one. Slow down until you’re nearly still, then launch into the step sequence to gain momentum for the next two jumps.” He plays the fragment again. “Can’t you hear it? The way that Peri’s despair lingers until she recaptures the lotus? Can’t you _feel_ it?”

And the thing is, Yuri _does._ He knows how lost Peri must have felt when Iskander stole the lotus, how she must have burned with it until she got it back. Yuri knows. He, too, has something that he desperately wants to keep.

Yuuri slows down the replay. “The choreo Viktor came up with isn’t bad, but it’s too.... Vik-torious?” He chuckles at his own pun; Yuri makes a face.

But he can’t help but laugh--he knows exactly what Yuuri means. Viktor’s initial changes seemed to suggest Peri was celebrating a victory not yet won. “Yeah. Like--at this point, Peri hasn’t won the lotus back yet.” He rewinds the video, replaying it at half speed.

“Right. Slow it down in the middle, and stack the jumps at the end, instead of interspersing them through the piece....”

Yuri closes his eyes. He can see exactly what Yuuri means. They spend the next fifteen minutes discussing the changes to the choreography to shift the focus from Peri’s loss to her devotion to the lotus. Yuuri scrawls notes into a hand-drawn choreography chart, which is absolutely incomprehensible to anyone else, except maybe Yakov, and that bastard had retired two years ago.

Yuuri’s glasses slide down his nose as he shuffles the papers on his desk.  “You know,” he says, words over-enunciated and careful, “Viktor asked me why you haven’t been over at the apartment in a month.”

Yuri snorts. “Are you serious?” he asks, incredulous.

“Yuri, he’s starting to suspect something...”

“Good! Isn’t that the point?” Yuri’s anger flares and his heart races, his palms break out in a cold sweat.

Yuuri flinches as though the words are a physical thing.

“What, do you want me to lie?” Yuri snaps. “To say I want to sneak around with you forever? Because it’s not true. I want what you have with him--but with you.” Saying it feels like a sigh--it’s the truest thing Yuri’s said in weeks. Ever since Salt Lake City and Skate America, he’s lived a life of half-truths and lies by omission. It scares Yuri, how much he means it.

Yuuri looks stricken. “Yusha--”

“No. You can’t ask me to sit down across from your husband in your living room and eat bibimbap and gossip about Mila’s latest crush and Georgi’s latest broken heart while I pretend I’m not fucking you.” Yuri’s voice breaks into a snarl. “It’s bad enough I see him at the rink four days a week. You fucked me too, you know. _You’re_ the married one.”

He knows as soon as he says it that it’s the wrong thing to say--Yuuri turns from him, walking back to sit in the imposing chair behind his desk. Yet the high backed chair just makes him look small, especially with the way his shoulders roll forward to curl over his chest. Yuuri sighs; Yuri’s heart lurches in his chest. He doesn’t want to fuck this up, not ever, and certainly not now, with everything between them so new.

“I understand,” Yuuri says, his voice so blank that Yuri knows he’s withdrawn into himself already. “You must think I’m selfish.”

“Hey, hey hey,” Yuri repeats in a soothing voice. He doesn’t touch Yuuri yet, he decides he won’t until Yuuri asks for it, even as Yuuri’s shoulders relax as he repeats the word until it sounds like nonsense.

Yuuri looks down at his ring, twisting it as he speaks. “It’s--not easy for me to do this. To--to be in love with two men at the same time.” He closes his eyes, scrunching his face into an expression not unlike a silent sob. “Because I love you, Yuri. I love Viktor, but I love you too.”

Yuri gasps and Yuuri turns to face him. “I wouldn’t be doing--this--if I wasn’t.” He swallows. “I love Viktor too much to risk it for anything less.” He’s still fidgeting with his ring, then seems to think better of it; he shoves his hands in his pockets and clears his throat. “I love _you_ too much to risk you for anything less.”

Yuri can’t hold himself back any longer--he gathers Yuuri in his arms, and it’s as much an effort to comfort himself as it is to comfort Yuuri. “You’re in love with me,” he says, and the words burst on his tongue like bubbles in a swallow of champagne.

Yuuri nods, eyes shining suspiciously like tears, and Yuri touches his nose to the corner of his brow in a butterfly kiss. A drop of liquid slips onto his nostril as ne nudges the crease of Yuuri’s eye. “I love you too, you idiot,” he murmurs onto the bone of Yuuri’s jaw, stubble faint but prickly against Yuri’s lips.  He’s already been too honest tonight, a little more won’t hurt. “I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve years old.”

“You can’t mean that.” He’s staring back at Yuri, eyes open in astonishment.

Yuri brushes Yuuri’s black bangs out of his eyes, pressing their foreheads together. “Since Junior Worlds 2015. ‘Piano Concerto in F’ and that purple backless turtleneck with the sequins just above your ass.” Twelve-year-old Yuri had been instantly affected by the sinuous sway of Yuuri’s hips, highlighted by the iridescent black sequins that shifted deep purple when they caught the light. He’d barely been able to close his bedroom door behind him before he’d had his cock in his hand, barely been able to take his dick out before he’d come across the worn beige Soviet-era carpet for the first of four orgasams. “I almost broke my dick that night. It was the night I became a man.”

The corner of Yuuri’s mouth twitches upwards slightly in a not-quite-smile. “You’re a man now. But you were still a boy when you came to Hasetsu the first time....”

Yuri slides the half-hard heat of his dick along the plush curve of Yuuri’s pear-shaped hips. “I’m a man now,” he repeats. “I want the kinds of things from you only a man can--God, I wanted you, but fifteen-year-old me would’ve had no idea what to do with you.”

Yuuri wriggles happily in Yuri’s embrace, his ass dragging against the bulge in Yuri’s leggings, too deliberate to be an accident. “Fuck, you’re doing that on purpose,” Yuri whines.

“Yeah,” Yuuri says, swishing his hips, and Yuri’s cock lurches again. His dick isn’t hard but it’s thick and heavy between his legs. “Sorry, Yusha...” He doesn’t look sorry--his eyelids are half-lowered in the unconscious way he does when he’s about to go into Eros mode. “Tell me more. About how you love me.”

Yuri presses an open-mouthed kiss to his neck, leaving a swipe of saliva with his tongue. Yuuri smells spicy and clean, and tastes just like he expects. “You’re sexy when you dance. But I love your laugh and the way your eyes glint the second before you say something sarcastic--I want you to tease me with that look in your eyes and your cock in my ass...” He licks his lower lip, letting the his saliva linger wet on his lips, before he presses another kiss to the crook of Yuuri’s neck, where the ends of his hair tangle together in curls. “You said it’s been since Toronto for you,” Yuri murmurs into Yuuri’s ear.

He can feel Yuuri nod he but doesn’t elaborate until Yuri prods. “I’d been in love with you for years. What changed in Toronto?”

Yuuri sits up a bit, causing Yuri’s blonde head to rest against his chest instead of his neck. His posture stiffens, and Yuri pulls back a bit, stops draping himself onto Yuuri’s shoulders. “Do you remember how my dad had an emergency bypass surgery last year?”

Yuri nods. He remembers that Yuuri had gotten the call as soon as they’d touched down at Pearson. Toshiya had already been in surgery by the time that Yuuri had gotten the message, and his recovery had been a messy one. Yuuri had spent the entire competition an anxious mess, anxiously awaiting updates on Toshiya’s prognosis. The competition had been a shitshow: their club had barely managed to podium, Yuri’s bronze medal their only prize.

“Eugenia was so stressed out, and I wasn’t able to give her the attention she needed. During the warm-ups, she could barely do a camel spin, and that’s _her_ move.” Yuuri closes his eyes as if he is trying to go back in time to the exact moment by blocking out the present. His voice gets softer, tinged with something wistful. “I was completely freaking out about my dad’s surgery and no help at all, we had three athletes in competition, and Viktor was off closing a deal for a new sponsor--”

“Viktor’s a dick,” Yuri interrupts.

Yuuri cracks his eyes open. They’re sepia-toned and nostalgic behind the lenses of his glasses. “I don’t think he means to be. He just doesn’t... _human_ very well.”

“True.” But Yuri says nothing more, simply waits and listens for the rest of whatever it is Yuuri’s begun to say.

“For all that he’s a genius at figure skating and fundraising, Viktor’s never been comfortable with feelings. Especially feelings as deep as mine can be sometimes.” He looks at Yuri meaningfully.

“Viktor’s shallow,” Yuri says, but even as he says it, he knows it’s spiteful.

Yuuri simply shakes his head sadly, as if Yuri’s disappointed him. “Believe me, Yuri, he tries.” He clenched his right hand into a fist, the band beneath his second knuckle glinting gold. “He hates seeing me upset, and always tries to distract me to cheer me up. When I don’t magically feel better, he gets frustrated...” He grimaces. “We’re so good in so many ways. And there are times that what Viktor has to give is exactly the thing I need.” He turns his head, the glare of the florescent lights in his glasses. “And then there are the times that I need you, Yuri.”

Yuri tries to swallow the hitch in his breath, but his throat tightens around the sob instead. It comes out anyway, a low and longing sound.

“Sometimes, I just have to feel things, even if they’re not the good kind of feelings.” He laughs, a single hollow chuckle. “You know how Yakov always says that pain is the body getting stronger?”

“Yeah.” It’s one of Yakov’s famous motivational phrases, which are mostly notorious for being completely unmotivating.

“Well, maybe sadness is the soul getting stronger. And just like you have to push past the hurt on the ice, you also have to push past the pain inside.” He chuckles to himself as if he’s making a private joke. “You don’t let me dwell on things, Yuri. Viktor coddles me, but you make me act. Force me to confront my own fears.” He brushes his nose against Yuri’s earlobe. “I need both of you, can’t you see that?”

Yuri nods. As much as he wants Yuuri for himself, he can admit that Viktor does things for Yuuri that he never could. Sometimes Yuuri needs to be protected and kept safe from the world--Yuri’s temper is far too short to stomach Yuuri’s occasional prolonged bouts of self-loathing. Viktor is good for Yuuri, but Yuri is too: Yuri’s the one who has a preternatural sense for the right moment to prod Yuuri into action. “I hate to see you fail,” he admits, speaking each word slowly and softly, hoping Yuuri will understand what he means. “I want the whole world to see how strong you can be.”

“I’m only strong because you both believe in me more than I believe in myself,” Yuuri says, the words wrenching out of him in a sound that’s suspiciously like a sob. Yet when Yuri turns to face him, his eyes are dry and open wide. There’s something in his expression that’s vulnerable in the way Yuuri rarely lets himself be, and it makes Yuri _want._

He’s seen Yuuri given over to lust, but he’s never seen him look like this, unless he was looking at Viktor. A thrill runs down his spine to have that look turned on him, all that naked worship.

“God, I wish we were in my bed,” Yuri whispers into the sensitive shell of Yuuri’s ear. The resulting shiver makes his body burn, like a limb that’s fallen asleep and come back to life all at once. “I’d make love to you, so slow...” They’ve fucked a few times now, but they’ve yet to make love. Even though Yuri’s loved every minute, it’s not the same thing... he wants to fuck Yuuri deep and slow, with the kind of thrusts that were barely movements at all, so desperate were they to stay joined together as deep as possible.

He breathes on the gentle curve of Yuuri’s neck and a lock of Yuuri’s too-long hair flutters to curl around his neck. God, he’s told Yuuri that he loves him--he aches to show Yuuri just how much. If they were anywhere else, somewhere more private, he’d already be undressing Yuuri, uncovering him layer by layer to expose the soft skin beneath. Instead, he settles for dusting kisses along the bent column of Yuuri’s neck, all the way from his jaw to the collar of his shirt. With two fingers, Yuri pushes down the fabric and opens his mouth to suck an almost-hickey against Yuuri’s collarbone. There’s a fading hickey on Yuuri’s skin, and Yuri wishes he could cover it with a mark of his own. He wants to cover every inch of Yuuri’s skin that Viktor has touched with his mouth and hands and cock, until Yuuri has forgotten that his body has ever belonged to anyone else.

“Mmm,” Yuuri sighs, leaning into Yuri’s touch so naturally that it makes Yuri wish again that they could make love right here. “The way you love me doesn’t feel like Viktor. It feels like the way _I_ love Viktor.” Yuuri pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose; it’s a thing he does when he’s beginning to doubt himself.  “Am I making sense? I feel like I’m not.”

“Oh, golub,” Yuri breathes into his ear. “You’re making perfect sense.” And Yuri supposes it does--maybe every other boy in the Russian Skate Federation idolized Viktor Nikiforov, but Yuri’s wall of posters back at his dedushka’s in Moscow were covered with posters of another skater: a lesser-known Japanese skater who couldn’t land a quad in competition if his life depended on it and had the best (interpretation) scores in international figure skating. “I was so mad when I found out you had a dog. I felt like I’d been betrayed.”

Yuuri chuckles a bit. “You’re the only kitten I’ve ever wanted.”

Yuri snuggles against Yuuri’s ample lap and makes a mewing sound. “Am I a good kitten?”

“The best kitten,” Yuuri breathes, wrapping Yuri in his embrace.

“Fuck, don’t kiss me like that. I’m going to come in my dance belt if you do,” Yuri warns. He’s already half-hard, and he’s not going to be able to resist Yuuri much longer.

Yuuri clucks his tongue. “So naughty.” He only draws Yuri closer, pressing their hips together. “I hope you brought a change of clothing.” He curls the words sensuously on his tongue, before  before leaning dangerously close to Yuri’s ear, words tickling like a kiss.  

Yuri sputters in surprise when Yuuri’s tongue steals into his mouth. He didn’t know what he’d expected when Yuuri called him here,  but it wasn’t this. Yet he’s not a good enough man to resist... he’s not sure he’s ever been able to resist Yuuri’s charms. Even as a teenager with only the most abstract concept of what two men could do with each other, he’d been helpless against Yuuri’s Eros.

And as an adult, he’s no better. Yuri opens his mouth and spreads his legs in obvious reciprocation. Anything Yuuri wants from him, he can take.

Yuuri presses their bodies together. It’s obvious he wants this as badly as Yuri does--his cock is hot against Yuri’s thigh, not quite hard, but almost. Yuri rubs against him, his mouth curling into a smirk on Yuuri’s skin as Yuuri’s cock grows warm and thick against him.

“Watching your programs last night--it was torture,” Yuuri whispers. “I kept thinking of the way your body moves against mine...” He grips Yuri by the hips to grind down against his thigh, and Yuri arches up into him.

Yuri knows exactly what he means. “I want you all the fucking time,” he pants, bracing his open palms against the desk to bend backward into a pose that’s half ballet and half obscene. It pushes his chest up, and Yuuri rucks his shirt up under his arms kiss up his chest. He lingers on the dip of Yuri’s sternum, flitting his tongue in and out of the divot with clever flicks before moving up to suckle Yuri’s nipples.

A rush of blood hits Yuri straight in the dick. His cock swells a little more, and he whimpers, past shame, exhaling the word _please_ as he palms his own crotch.

Yuuri swats his hand away, then uses his own hands to push Yuri’s leggings and dance belt down to his knees in a single motion. Yuri’s cock snaps back to hit him in the abs, already eager. “Fuck,” Yuri groans. He leans forward to grapple with the waistband of Yuuri’s sweats, craving the feeling of Yuuri’s skin against his own. He’s so desperate that he’s clumsy with it; his fingers fumble with the drawstring on Yuuri’s sweats and snap the waistband of his briefs with impatience until Yuuri takes mercy on him and undresses himself.

Yuuri steps back and stretches, a move that puts his thickening penis on display. It hangs heavily between his legs, below the unruly edges of his pubic hair, which is as overgrown as the hair on his head. He looks so lewd like this, naked from the waist down, his hoodie unzipped to expose the thin tank he wears beneath. It’s well-worn, almost see-thru, a tank Yuri knows well--he’s spent countless practices watching the outline of Yuuri’s nipples poking through the transparent fabric as he dances.

He hears the moan he makes before he knows he’s even made a sound. Yuri can’t help himself, he gasps and scoots to the edge of the desk, lifting his legs to wrap around Yuuri’s thick thighs and draw him close. Yuuri’s cock lies against the crease between his hip and his leg, and Yuri can feel it filling with blood, thickening against him with each pulse. It makes his own dick jump, and he squeezes his legs more tightly around Yuuri’s thighs, urging him closer.

With a half-laugh, Yuuri obliges him, grasping both of penises in his hand. His thumb presses against the underside of Yuri’s cockhead, not-quite touching the fingertips that wrap around the top of his own. His palm cradles both their cocks, squeezes but does not stroke. Instead, he rubs their dicks against each other in the tight grip of his hand, rubbing his soft penis against Yuri’s erection.

Yuri can feel him getting harder with each press and throb, Yuuri’s penis growing fatter and firmer, until he’s just as hard as Yuri. His heart is aching in his chest just as hungrily as his dick is aching between his legs; he wants to pull Yuuri into his body and wring every drop of doubt from him until only love remains.

His palm is dry, and the callus at the base of his thumb from gripping the barre for hours at a time is rough against the side of Yuri’s shaft. A little bit of precum beads at the tip of Yuri’s cock, and Yuuri rubs the wetness away with his own dickhead. Yuri bites off a moan, which makes Yuuri smirk and rub their cockheads together again.

“You feel... you feel so good,” Yuri whimpers. He’s already unable to control the want that rushes through his veins and collects in his dick; he wants to come.

Yuuri grins wickedly, sliding his cock against Yuri’s as he humps into his own hand, thrusts gaining in speed and pressure. The contrast between Yuuri’s calloused palm and the soft skin of his dick is delicious, and after only a few minutes of rubbing off together, Yuri’s already close. He has to bat Yuuri’s hand away and grab his balls to stave off his orgasm. “Fuck, I just--if you keep touching me like that--I’m gonna--I’m gonna--” Yuri pants. It’s too soon, it feels too good, he doesn’t want it to stop.

Yuuri presses their foreheads together and nods. The frame of his glasses pinches Yuri’s brow, the little twinge of discomfort enough of a distraction that he’s able to keep from coming his time. The whole time, Yuuri’s touching himself with long slow strokes while he watches Yuri’s dick twitch and pull back from the edge.

He waits until Yuri’s just starting to soften before he touches him again. It doesn’t take long before Yuri’s making small whining sounds and trying not to come again, and Yuuri only barely manages to stop stroking him in time--Yuri’s penis spits precum with so much force that he thinks he must be coming at first. It lands on Yuuri’s thigh, viscous and white.

“Wow,” Yuuri murmurs, bussing an Eskimo kiss against Yuri’s long, thin nose. He’s running his fingertips through the small puddle of precum Yuri dribbled onto his thigh, getting himself filthy with it before he reaches for Yuri’s dick again. “Do you like it, golub?”

“I love it,” Yuri confesses, and because he can, he adds, “I love _you_ , Yuuri, oh, fuck--” Whatever he might have said next just sounds like a moan. Yuri grinds up, pressing himself into the shallow grip of Yuuri’s fist and the heat of Yuuri’s hard cock.

Yuuri moans, and his penis jerks. Yuri can feel him throbbing against the sensitive skin of his own dick, and it makes him leak more precum, thicker this time. When Yuuri spreads the wetness between them with his smooth, hot cockhead, Yuri murmurs a plea onto Yuuri’s skin:  “Just--make sure I can feel it. Make sure I can feel you loving me.” He says it only once. He will plead but he will not beg.

“Hands on your head.”

Yuri’s hand stills. He cradles his penis, waiting to see what Yuuri will do.

“Hands on your head,” Yuuri repeats, half growling the demand. Yuri obeys. His hair is a matted mess beneath his palms, and he smooths it down. Yuuri twirls an errant blonde strand   “Always so vain, Yusha.” His eyes are quirked with amusement, his mouth pursed with affection.

He releases Yuri’s hair, gazing at him appreciatively before he begins to tease their cocks, just with his fingertips at first. When he pushes back Yuri’s foreskin with his thumb, precum leaks from the exposed head, and Yuuri tightens his hand and thrusts his dick back and forth, using the slick to ease the slide between their penises enough to thrust a little faster.

Just as Yuri’s certain that he’s going to come, Yuuri lets go of their penises. Yuri’s cock jumps, spurting twice, before Yuuri withdraws, watching as Yuri’s dick trembles between his thighs, then stills. His semen trickles from his cockhead down into his pubic hair, and Yuuri lets out an awed sound.

“Please,” Yuri whimpers. His balls ache, still full of cum, and he reaches for his dick, trying to stroke out the last of his semen, but Yuuri bats his hands away. Yuri whines as Yuuri takes his penis into his hand and strokes, quickly bringing him back up to the edge. Even in these short stolen moments, Yuuri can’t help but tease, and Yuri can’t help but love the way that Yuuri can take him apart, reduce him to a stammering, stuttering mess in only minutes.

Viktor had often joked about Yuuri’s stamina, and Yuri thinks he has not ever really appreciated it before. But now, Yuri’s cock leaks with the way Yuuri keeps them both at the brink of orgasm, letting neither of them come apart completely.

Yuuri slides his cock between Yuri’s cheeks, to tease over his hole, which clenches in response. The nerves in his cock and groin tense, and Yuri pleads _let me come let me come let me come_ until Yuuri tightens his grip around his cock. It feels good for a moment, then Yuuri _squeezes_. The sudden hot arc of pain is the only thing that keeps Yuri from losing it.

Yuri gasps. And Yuuri begins jerking them off again, his palm loose but quick, and Yuri’s back at the edge in moments. His dick jumps in Yuuri’s palm, letting out another thick strand of precum, and Yuuri pulls his hand away--

But Yuri’s still coming. He can’t stop it--his dick twitches, and another shot of cum practically _erupts_ from his dick, spraying him on the shoulder. Yuri’s hand dart between his legs to jerk out the rest of his cum. “Don’t touch it,” Yuuri says. Yuri defiantly keeps stroking, keeps coming. “Hands on your head, Yuri.”

“I--I can’t--Yuuri--” Yuri graps his penis pathetically, stroking out the last of his orgasm, just a more few dribbles.

“Bad kitty,” Yuuri says fondly, and it sets Yuri off again. His hand speeds up on his dick, and and Yuuri chuckles. “You like being my kitten, don’t you, Yusha?”

Yuri cries out, and comes again, unsure if it’s because of the hand on his dick or his nickname on Yuuri’s voice that pushes him past the edge once more. He can’t stop touching himself--his belly is filthy with his cum, his shirt utterly ruined, but it feels too good to stop.

Yuuri watches until Yuri finally crumples against the desk, releasing his cock from his hand. “Fuck, golub, that was so fucking good--”

Yuuri growls, a hungry, possessive sound. “I’m not done with you yet,” he growls and reaches to trail his fingertips down Yuri’s chest, smearing each drop of cum together, then puts his filthy hand on his own dick. “Watch, Yuri.” His voice is deep with want. “I’m gonna come all over your pretty cock.” His foreskin makes a slapping sound in his own fist as he works himself with quick, hard strokes. Only a  minute later, he comes with a stuttering sigh, all over Yuri’s pubes and the blonde hair on his thighs.

Yuri’s a mess, their combined semen streaking his belly and legs, his arms trembling from bracing both their weight. He quivers, letting out a pathetic sound, and Yuuri snakes an elbow around his waist, supporting Yuri by the lower back with his forearm to ease him onto the small couch next to the bookcase which is full of medals and awards and photographs of Yuuri and his skaters on the podium.

There’s one from that very first Grand Prix, Yuri wearing gold around his neck as a smiling silver-adorned Yuuri and Viktor wrap arms around his shoulder. Viktor looks so incredibly proud. He and Yuuri look so incredibly in love, while Yuri’s grimacing, his eyes still red from crying on the ice.

Yuri remembers the moment that photo was taken. He’d stolen the gold by only a few hundredths of a point. Viktor may have won Yuuri’s love, but Yuri had won another year on the ice alongside him. It was too bad that Viktor had decided to return to competition; that year was supposed to have been for Yuri and Yuuri, but Viktor always found a way to make it all about himself. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

He’s disturbed from his contemplation of the photograph by the swipe of a soft cloth against his stomach--Yuuri is cleaning the worst of the mess before it sticks. He’s a little disappointed, though he knows he has to clean up for practice, he’d like to carry Yuuri’s scent with him all day long. The idea makes him feel owned, and strangely soothed.

“Hey. Is that my shirt?” Yuri grips.

“You can borrow one of mine,” Yuuri says, like sharing clothes is something they _do_.

Yuri shivers. “It’s OK. I have extra in my gym bag.” He knows better than to come downstairs fucked out and wearing Yuuri’s clothing. It’s already hard enough to hide what they have in all the moments in between, when they’re _not_ fucking.  

For the remaining twenty minutes until the start of Yuri’s scheduled hour, Yuri runs his fingers over through Yuuri’s unkempt waves where they spill across his chest. They hold themselves close together on the small couch, not quite asleep though their breath has slowed, until Yuuri’s phone alarm goes off. It sounds like chirping birds, and Yuuri sits up and reaches for his glasses. They’re smeared with sweat and grime and blur his gaze. Yuri doesn't like not being able to look Yuuri in the eye. 

Yuri stuffs his dirty shirt into his bag, still reeking of his and Yuuri’s combined cum. He had enough foresight to bring a change of clothes, although he will probably regret not having anything clean to change into after showering. Last week, his trainer added more weight to his routine, and today’s session at the gym promises to be brutal. His muscles already ache, and he’s got a full hour in the studio to endure first...

Yuuri’s slow to get to his feet, just sitting on the couch to watch Yuri change. His dirty lenses obscure the way his gaze rakes over Yuri’s chest and ass, but Yuri knows he’s looking from the heat that prickles over his skin as Yuuri watches him. He’s unnerved by the grimy glasses--when Yuuri looks at him with that expression on his face, Yuri wants to be able to look back.

He unhooks Yuuri’s glasses from behind his ears, then blows on the glass and rubs the lenses clean on his soft shirt. When he fits the frames back onto Yuuri’s face, Yuri cannot resist pressing the pad of his thumb into the indent above Yuuri’s cupid’s bow with the same force as a kiss. “C’mon, coach,” he teases. “It’s time for practice. We don’t want your other students to think you’re going easy on me.”

“Oh, Yusha,” Yuuri sighs, his breath hot against Yuri’s thumb. “Like I’m capable of going easy on you.” He grasps Yuuri’s hand to lace their fingers together, and place their joined hands over his heart.

“That’s right. You are certain _hardon_ me,” Yuri says, and he supposes he deserves the smack Yuuri gives him for the terrible pun. But he’s satisfied by the way that Yuuri’s eyes light with humor--he’s never been able to resist a pun, good or bad.

Yuri pulls him to his feet with a laugh, and they head downstairs to the studio, waving to the secretary at the front desk on their way. For the rest of the hour, Yuuri makes him practice the subtle tweaks to his short program over and over until he’s certain he’ll be doing the steps in his sleep. No matter how many times they do this, nothing ever changes. It seems like something should.

But everything’s the same as it always is. Yuri even thinks he sees a familiar flash of gold and red, but it’s gone before he can look twice. The feeling that he’s being watched lingers all the way until he’s out the door and across the street, but when Yuri turns to check behind his back, all he sees is and old man walking a tiny dog, nothing more.

 

 

Yuri ducks into the Veselka on his way home from the gym. Dmitry’s new program was every bit as sadistic as Yuri had feared, and he is light-headed and starving as he walks. In desperate need of calories, he orders a peanut-butter-and-banana smoothie at the counter, graciously putting his change in the tip jar while the barista turns to prepare his shake.

The blender whirs to life, and Yuri stares absentmindedly around the cafe. Georgi, Mila, and the other skaters often stop by here on their way to or from the rink, and he’s hoping for a familiar face in the crowd to distract him from the tedium of waiting.

There’s one familiar face, but it’s not one he wants to see: Minami’s sitting in a corner table, staring at his phone and shoving mouthfuls of croissant into his face, his bleached hair wet from his after-workout shower. He shows no sign of having noticed Yuri, and Yuri wants to keep it that way.

Yuri takes a deep breath, trying to keep his fists from clenching. He can do this. He’s just going wait for his smoothie, and then go home. Hopefully Minami stays distracted by whatever’s on his phone screen.

But his luck lasts only as long as it takes for the barista to finish her smoothie. “Smoothie for Yuri?” They both startle--Minami’s head snaps up so quickly Yuri will be surprised if he doesn’t end up with whiplash. They make eye contact for a terrible second, and Minami’s expression stretches into a sly smile with just the very edge of his snaggletooth visible.

Yuri turns to the barista, forcing the sneer on his face into an unconvincing smile as he thanks her for his drink perhaps a little more impatiently than necessary. If he’s quick, he can make it out of the cafe before Minami can catch up with him--

He almost makes it, too. He’s only a few steps from the door when his phone clatters out of the pocket of his hoodie onto the floor, and Minami’s _there_ in an instant, stooping to pick it up off the floor. “Looking for this?”

He doesn’t move to offer the phone to Yuri, so Yuri makes a grab for it. Minami surrenders it easily; he’s got what he wants and it was never Yuri’s phone.

“You know, I had to drop off some paperwork for Yuuri this morning,” he says, putting his empty hand in his pocket, altogether too casual. “He said I could just drop it off anytime; they keep the safe and important documents downstairs. His office is always open.”

Yuri arranges his face into perfect boredom and heads for the door. “Yeah, I _know_. Why are you telling me this?” He nearly manages closes the door between them as they exit the cafe,

But Minami is not so easily dissuaded. He quickens his pace to match Yuri’s, his short legs moving in a half-run to keep up. “The door was locked.” Minami’s footfalls are heavy and graceless and quick on Yuri’s heels. “Yuuri _never_ locks the door to his office.”

“Yeah, so? What the fuck does that have to do with me?” Yuri feints in an attempt to escape, but Minami grabs him by the wrist and pulls, and Yuri’s smoothie spills onto the sidewalk like all the things he cannot say.

“You were up there with him!” Minami huffs, exasperated. Before Yuri can react, Minami’s pointed canines are already exposed in a warning snarl. “And I _know_ you were. I saw you guys come downstairs, OK?”

Yuri tries to sidestep him, but Minami, impossibly quick on his feet, manages to block him no matter which way he turns. “What were you doing in there that you needed to lock the door, Yurio?” Minami counters, drawing his upper lip back enough to display his snaggletooth.

Yuri spits. “Don’t call me that.” He doesn’t actually answer the question.

Minami sneers. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”

Yuri almost lunges for Minami’s throat then. He stops himself last minute, hitting the brick wall behind Minami’s head in an open-palmed _smack_ just inches from his shoulder. Yuri’s nerves sting from the force of it all the way from his wrist to his shoulder. Still he doesn’t let himself flinch, not where Minami can see. “You think you know, but you have no fucking idea.” Without bothering to give rooster boy a chance to squawk out an answer, Yuri turns and stomps down the street.

Fuck that asshole for presuming to know what he and Yuuri do when they’re together. Even if Minami’d heard, even if he guessed that they’d been rubbing off against each other, even if he’d smelled Yuuri’s cum on his skin, Minami couldn’t possibly _understand_.

This is secret, sure, but it’s not some sort of sordid, shameful thing. They’re in love, and maybe that doesn’t make it right, but it sure as hell isn’t _wrong_ , and a chicken with a nugget for a brain like Minami could never see that. “Like he wouldn’t if he could,” Yuri mutters to himself, kicking at an empty soda can. Like Minami gives a shit about the Katsuki-Nikiforov marriage. Yuri’s seen the way Minami looks at Yuuri--the little shit is sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, probably because he’s bitter that it isn’t _him_.

Well fuck him, and fuck that. Yuuri’s _his_ , whatever Minami thinks, whatever _anyone_ thinks: no one can take that away from him.

He’s halfway down the block when he realizes--he never bothered to deny it. Not in so many words, and his palms go clammy at the thought. But there’s another part of him that burns defiant in his chest that thinks _what if--_

Because what will Yuuri _do_ when he can no longer keep their shameful secret? What happens when Viktor adds up all the moments that Yuri has stolen Yuuri, and realizes half of his husband is missing from him? What happens when something slips that no amount of denial can take back? Yuri’s palms go clammy, and he shoves them in his pocket.

For a shameful second, he dares to hope that he will not lose when that moment comes, then shakes his own head and sneers at his own idiocy. Yuri’s no dumb kid; he knows that stories like his don’t have happy endings. He’s long since outgrown his teenage fantasies of dethroning Viktor and whisking away his husband to some deserted island to keep for himself. Yuuri would be devastated if he lost his husband, and as much as Yuri wants him, he doesn’t want Yuuri to be his own if he’s sad about not having Viktor.

Maybe that is proof unto itself how much Yuri has grown. Fifteen-year-old Yuri would have been much more selfish. He would have wanted Yuuri to love him only.

But adult Yuri has seen how much Yuuri shines with Viktor’s attention. It would be cruel to take it away--even if Yuuri shines for Yuri too, it’s not the same. Yuuri deserves all the happiness he can get, even if Yuri can’t give it to him all himself.

Yuri’s stomach rumbles, distracting him from the dangerous path his thoughts have taken--he never did get to drink his smoothie before Minami had knocked it onto the sidewalk. Frustrated, Yuri kicks a soda can into the street, right into the path of a moving car. The driver swerves and honks, and he gives them the finger more out of reflex than anything else.

Fuck it--Yuri’s going to go home and have wine and cheese for dinner and drunk dial his grandfather. Maybe one of those things will ease this uneasy feeling: it’s not quite like being watched, but he still can’t get comfortable. Perhaps this is just the weight of a secret settling into the spaces between his bones, making everything ache. No one told him how a lie gets heavier the longer you have to carry it.

He zips his jacket and pulls on his gloves, and tells himself to stop being so melodramatic. He’s not Viktor Nikiforov, for fuck’s sake, and he better start acting like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope this chapter answers some of the questions readers have had about the characters. the first few chapters were just setting the scene; now the plot is beginning to thicken.
> 
> have you ever had a moment when you realize that only about two weeks have gone by in a story that's taken you six months to write? because it's a fucking trip, i'll tell you that much. 
> 
> anyway as always, the muse loves hearing you tell her she's good <3

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on tumblr at [the-stoned-ranger](https://the-stoned-ranger.tumblr.com/)
> 
> leave comments & kudos as offerings for the muse, & the muse will offer you updates in return...


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